


drops of water in an endless sea

by rievu



Series: seas who could sing so deep and strong [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Burn, because bioware committed a cardinal sin, fun little scenes showing the progression of love, when they didn't let me romance cassandra with a female inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 11:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: Lavellan traces words and symbols on Cassandra’s skin sometimes. At times, Cassandra can feel them when Lavellan smoothes over Cassandra’s skin with soft healing magic. At other times, it’s when Lavellan falls asleep beside her, arm thrown over Cassandra’s body, and sleepily taps out another rhythm of unknown meaning on Cassandra’s shoulder.// a series of scenes that capture a budding romance between a seeker and her inquisitor





	1. haven, for better or worse

**Author's Note:**

> most of these are small scenes from my main lavellan/cassandra fic, [an anchored heart in a shoreless sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657441), that never made it in. they're also from multiple perspectives rather than just being from cassandra's alone. enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Enathe** : (n.) beginning, start
> 
> No one can really say when anything begins. Because, in truth, there is always something before the beginning, something that occurred before the start. So, can we really say that there is an enathe, a beginning to this tale? After all, isn’t what happens before the hero’s tale just as influential to the hero as does the actual battle-glory itself?
> 
> Nothing truly begins.

“You brought in Meredith’s _pet_ as our Commander.”

Cassandra bristles at the vitriol lacing Leliana’s words, and she retorts, “He turned on her during the last battle of Kirkwall. He is tested and true, and he is a templar. He will ensure that the Chantry does not turn on us for being some rogue organization.”

“And you did not think to even _consider_ my other choices for the position,” Leliana counters with an icy-cold tone. “Perhaps Evangeline de Brassard. She was the Knight-Captain at the White Spire and saved Divine Justinia from an assassination. Higher rank, higher status, and higher deeds than this _Cullen.”_

“But she was demoted by the Lord Seeker,” Cassandra hisses. She slams her hands on the table now and continues, “And she worked with _mages._ How do you think we are going to justify that to the Chantry? To the rest of the world?”

“We are dealing with a war,” Leliana says. Anger flares hot and heavy in her eyes now — a rare thing for Sister Nightingale — and she snaps, “Do you not think we should try and bridge the gap? That is precisely what Most Holy is striving for, and instead of bringing in someone who can connect between mages and templars, you bring in a man who is the very antithesis of that! His history, his actions, his rank, all of them point to being firmly anti-mage, and you want _him_ as the Commander of the illustrious Inquisition.”

Now, Cassandra is angry as well. And when she is angry, she will take the fight to its bitter end. “She is _Orlesian_ ,” she tries now. The barb stings Leliana who holds Orlais in her veins no matter how much she claims her Fereldan heritage. “If we are going to announce the Inquisition at the Conclave which is in _Ferelden_ , then choosing an Orlesian will doom us all. They will denounce us as playing favorites.”

“Oh really?” Leliana says in a dangerously low tone. “If you wanted a Fereldan, then why not choose Guard-Captain Aveline? She’s Fereldan _and_ she has ties with the Free Marches, just like your precious Knight-Captain Cullen. She even has connections with the Champion of Kirkwall who _you_ failed to find.”

This is low, even for Leliana. Leliana knows it too.

Cassandra’s voice rises higher in volume as she says, “You brought in your Antivan ambassador. Now, you want control over who leads our military forces too?! There are two hands for the Divine, Leliana, and you agreed to our terms.”

“Even _Samson_ would have been a better choice for a Commander,” Leliana sneers.

Cassandra lifts her nose and bites out, “Samson is a man cast out of the Order.”

“Cast out for helping a mage,” Leliana counters. “He is a man with a good heart. He cares for the Tranquil, and very few templars within the Order care. Just admit the fact that you chose poorly, Cassandra, and we can move on with a _better_ commander.”

“The job is done!” Cassandra cries out, loud enough to bleed through the thin walls of the Hanged Man. “He’s hired, and that’s that. If you want to throw him out, then throw him out with your Antivan, and we will start anew. You only dislike him because of an old grudge, a pettiness that does not suit the Divine's plan, Leliana. Perhaps it's time to let go of your old grudges. The Fifth Blight ended years ago.”

Leliana opens her mouth to say something equally cutting and equally loud, but a small cough shakes both of them from their fight. There, at the doorway, stands Cullen Stanton Rutherford and Josephine Cherette Montilyet.

Josephine delicately coughs again and pats her lips with a lace handkerchief before she says quietly, “I believe we will come at another time. Come, Commander, let us have our first meeting tomorrow. Same time tomorrow, yes?”

“Josie,” Leliana says as she moves forward, voice soft and pleading. A stark contrast to how she was talking with Cassandra.

Josephine holds up her hand and in a voice that brooks no arguments, she says, “No, Leliana, I — no, _we_ — will see you tomorrow morning. Goodbye, Leliana, Seeker Pentaghast.”

She leaves with a ramrod-straight back while Cullen leaves with another glance behind his back at the rage quietly chilling into a mask of indifference on Leliana’s face. Hesitation lines itself clearly and cleanly across the rough lines of Cullen’s face, and Cassandra can’t help but relate. There is history that Cassandra doesn’t quite know between the two, and it fuels Leliana’s rage enough for her to be dangerous. But she will not hesitate. She truly thinks that this is best for the Inquisition.

But Cassandra will grudgingly admit that Guard Captain Aveline was a genius idea.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The elf named Lavellan is... For lack of a better term, strange.

Cassandra notices the tenseness of Lavellan's shoulders that betray her wide, open eyes and wide smile. The combination of the conflicting emotions across her entire body only serves to emphasize the skittishness Lavellan embodies. She flinches whenever Cullen or any other templar comes too close and retreats towards the place closest to an exit point when she enters a building. The elf's gaze constantly flickers from person to person, cataloging each face and name and committing them to her expansive memory. Cassandra knows this because Lavellan somehow managed to find out her entire name and recites her title whenever she addresses her.

"Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast," Lavellan says with an innocent, doe-eyed look. "I wanted to know if you were available to go to the Hinterlands. Leliana says that I should talk to someone there and refuses to let me go alone."

Cassandra almost chokes on the water she's drinking and sputters, "Excuse me?!"

Lavellan blinks slowly before she tries, “Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast? I am sorry for forgetting the Seeker part of the name.”

“No, that’s not what I’m shocked about,” Cassandra retorts in a too-sharp voice. She sees Lavellan flinch away from her — only the slightest twitch, the smallest step back — and with regret, she tries to soften the edge of her voice. “That’s not it,” she sighs out. “Just call me something shorter, something less formal.”

“Am I… Am I allowed to do that?” Lavellan asks with wide eyes. “Is that not respectful? I think that I should not. It is only proper to refer to people by their proper names and titles. That is what Ambassador Josephine Cherette Montilyet says.” She stumbles over the foreign syllables in Josephine’s name, but she gets through it alright. She even manages the slight roll of the tongue in the name “Cherette.” But Cassandra wonders _how_ Lavellan managed to find that out. Josephine doesn’t go around proclaiming her full name for the world to know. Well, the world already knows her name, so the diplomat has no need for it, but Lavellan? Cassandra doesn’t know where Lavellan keeps finding these facts and how she keeps remembering them.

Lavellan waits with her typical wide-eyed expression and drums her fingers against her thigh. Normally, Cassandra would think it was nothing more than a nervous tic, but when she squints at Lavellan, she swears she can see the smallest glint of mirth in Lavellan’s expressive eyes. When Lavellan notices her look, the elf’s eyes flutter in a series of short blinks before shuttering completely. Now, her expression is unreadable and blank as a still pool of water, and Cassandra’s left to wonder what’s filtering through her mind.

“So, will you go with me to the Hinterlands?” Lavellan prompts. She rocks back and forth on her feet as she waits and moves her hands to twiddle her thumbs together.

Cassandra reluctantly nods. Leliana would never forgive her if she let Lavellan go out alone, and frankly, she agrees with Leliana’s judgement. This _Lavellan_ is far too precious for them to lose, and considering her behavior, Cassandra wouldn’t be surprised if Lavellan suddenly escaped.

However, she doesn’t. Lavellan never leaves without their permission. Sure, the elf manages to put the fear of the Maker in Cassandra every time she tries to scale a near-vertical cliff or wade into a lake near a bear for minerals and herbs. But no matter what, without fail, Lavellan always returns to the fold. She comes back, soaked with lakewater or covered with dust, but _she comes back._

Lavellan also traces her steps in Haven in the same routine every day. Cassandra wakes up at the crack of dawn, but Lavellan must get up even more her. Somehow, Lavellan manages to greet Cassandra with the same morning call. _“On dhea_ , Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast!” she always sings out. At this point, Cassandra only drags her hand down her face and responds back with a groan. Lavellan never seems to take it personally and simply bounces over to tap her shoulder with a soft pat. Then, she dashes off to do whatever it is she has to do for the day.

One day, Cassandra slips on a slippery patch of ice on the ground and nearly falls into Lavellan’s arms. Cassandra flails her arms and manages to grab Lavellan’s left hand to regain her balance. Lavellan’s hand feels unnaturally hot, and Cassandra hears a sudden hiss of pain from Lavellan. When she glances up, Lavellan’s eyes betray her pain as she yanks her left hand back. Cassandra’s gaze follows to her hand and sees green light crackle over Lavellan’s palm once before receding back into her skin. Lavellan pastes on a smile and dutifully says, _“On dhea_ , Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast!”

Cassandra doesn’t believe it for one second and leans to examine Lavellan’s hand. She’s no mage, but she probes the area around the hand with her Seeker abilities. She feels a flare of mana when she presses around the aura around the hand. It doesn’t feel like Lavellan. Instead, it feels like wildfire or a torrent of rain compared to the placid skies and gentle breezes of Lavellan’s mana. Cassandra yanks her senses away from the Anchor and sees Lavellan studying her face with a rare intensity.

Lavellan drops her gaze when Cassandra tries to meet her eyes, and she pulls her hand back. “Do not worry about it, Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast,” she insists. She shakes her left hand and sends small green sparks flying from her hand. “There is nothing to worry about,” she says with another smile of hers. Lavellan winks at her before bounding off towards her next destination. Cassandra watches her leave with a furrow in her brow. There is something off about the way Lavellan behaves, something too cheery about her demeanor, and Cassandra doesn’t know why it bothers her as much as it does.

A part of her wants to reassure Lavellan that everything will be alright, but the rational part of her mind informs her that there is no such possibility. The Breach is still aflame in the sky, and Most Holy is still dead. There is nothing that is sure or definite anymore, and Lavellan’s life still lies in tenuous balance. Leliana and Cassandra may be able to shield her from Orlais’s wrath for now, but she doesn’t know if Tranquility, execution, or something worse still lies in Lavellan’s fate. Cassandra shakes her head and watches Lavellan stop by the training ring to wave hello to Cullen.

She will admit that the elf is much more relaxed than she was in the first week, but her posture is still rigid and her shoulders are still too tense to match the grin on her face. Cassandra pictures Lavellan’s face in her mind before pushing it out of her mind. She has more pressing issues to handle today other than her Herald.

“She may escape at any moment,” Leliana concludes. She taps on the map stretched out across the war table and contemplates the matter again. “If our Herald escapes, she’s likely to take these routes and circle around the edges of the Hinterlands to the Kocari Wilds or the Brecilian Forest. There, she will have the help of other Dalish clans, and I don’t doubt her ability to find them in the wilderness.”

The tension between all four in the room — Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, and Cassandra — is brittle at best. The loud conversation from the Hanged Man all those weeks ago is not forgotten. Not yet. Josephine is the only one who manages to keep them all sane while they’re all in the same vicinity to each other. On one hand, Leliana and Cullen constantly fight while Josephine acts as though she is stepping on eggshells in conversations with Cassandra.

No one is happy. No one is satisfied. Yet, the matter of the Herald and the fledgling Inquisition must be dealt with.

“We could have templars stationed more frequently within Haven,” Cullen offers up. “If the Herald tries to make a run for it, we can smite her and bring her back.”

“Have you not noticed the way she tenses around you?” Leliana answers sharply. “She’s skittish and every route she takes circles far and wide around every templar in Haven, including you, _Commander._ Do not aggravate the situation.”

“She’s a _mage,”_ Cullen snaps. “And templars are best equipped to deal with mage threats.”

Leliana blinks and waits. It’s a strategy the spymaster sometimes employs when she is too furious for words. Silence drips by, and Cullen flushes red. He turns to Cassandra for support as he protests, “Am I wrong? No! It’s the truth, clear and simple. We can recruit more templars, and they’ll keep our ‘Herald’ in line.”

Cassandra has to admit that there is no such thing as an unarmed templar against a mage. However, she clears her throat and says, “I don’t think adding templars will ease the Herald’s — Lavellan’s — mind. If anything, it could agitate her enough and finally make her escape.”

“She’s easing up a little,” Cullen says. “She’ll be fine.”

“If I may intercede,” Josephine says before Leliana can say anything scathing back. “I think Lavellan is most comfortable with Cassandra compared to the templars or you, Commander. Perhaps it would be safer for Lavellan to stay the way she is and have Cassandra accompany her on outings. Then, Cassandra would be able to keep her magic in check should it be necessary, and Lavellan would stay with someone that she is familiar with.”

“She does not,” Cassandra snorts. “She flinches sometimes when I make a motion that’s too sudden or quick around her.”

“But Josie is right,” Leliana quietly murmurs. She toys with one of the small flags pinned on the map and continues, “The Herald _is_ more comfortable with you around. She leans closer to you than others and stops by your door every single morning without fail.”

“Doesn’t she do that to you too?” Cassandra asks.

Everyone else shakes their head. Leliana regards Cassandra carefully before answering, “She stops by Josephine’s office the most after you, and the purpose of most of those visits is for Minaeve and whatever creature Lavellan managed to capture out there. After that is me, and she stops by two or three times a week at best. Cullen... “

Cullen clears his throat and says stoically, “The Herald does not have the best opinion of me.”

“Because you are a templar,” Leliana sighs. She raises her gaze to meet Cassandra straight on, and Cassandra thinks back to Leliana’s outburst. It’s true; there _were_ better candidates for Cullen’s position. Evangeline de Brassard, Aveline Vallen. All these people and more on the list of potentials. Still, Cassandra believes that there is more potential waiting within Cullen. He just needs to have confidence in himself to unlock it.

But more importantly, Cassandra’s mind shifts over to the puzzling thought. Does Lavellan prefer her that much? She doesn’t think that there’s much of a difference between their interactions and Lavellan’s interactions with other people. If anything, Lavellan treats them all the same: with a wide, innocent gaze and a soft smile hiding more than it shows. It’s something that Cassandra rolls around in her thoughts over and over again as the meeting drags on.

And she continues to think about it the next morning when Lavellan makes her routine visit. This time, Lavellan brings her a small bunch of flowers.

 _Ah,_ Cassandra realizes. _Leliana was right._

As she always is.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lavellan cannot be her real name. There must be more to her that identifies her than a simple “Lavellan.” Leliana reads through the brief file her best agents gathered for her, and she sets the paper down with an irritated huff. The raven that brought the message lets out a loud caw almost as if it were mimicking her. Leliana arches an eyebrow at her raven as she runs her index finger down its back. It preens under her touch and flies off only when Leliana dismisses it with a flap of her hand.

The information she finds matches with Lavellan’s story. A First from Clan Lavellan in the Free Marches. Leliana has met Dalish elves before, and she knows that this Lavellan must have something more to her name other than “Lavellan.” However, Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan is not willing to corroborate her suspicions, and all of her other sources point to “Lavellan” being the only moniker the elf bears.

Everything seems so off though. Why would a Keeper send her only First off to a Conclave filled with Templars and Chantry sisters? There would only be chances of execution or the Rite of Tranquility for her there if she got caught. At best, she would be forced to make a phylactery, and the Chantry would have a leash on her forevermore. Leliana remembers the way her Surana spoke of the phylacteries: with utter disdain. Even as a Grey Warden, the Templars still kept Surana’s phylactery as a form of insurance. Leliana shuts her eyes and pushes her memories aside in favor of focusing on the conundrum that is Lavellan.

According to sources in Starkhaven, Clan Lavellan was one of the Dalish clans more inclined to have an interest in human politics and affairs. Even though the Conclave was far off, Leliana can see the connection between Clan Lavellan and the Conclave. But a First? Leliana can find no evidence of this Lavellan being involved in trade or markets with cities like Starkhaven or Tantervale. She only finds records of older elves that do not match Lavellan’s description.

When Leliana glances up to look out at Haven, she sees Lavellan dragging Varric by the elbow into the Chantry. She spots the telltale shine of lockpicking tools hanging from his belt, and her eyes narrow on the pair. Lavellan bends down to whisper something into Varric’s ear, and he dissolves into laughter. Leliana purses her lips and waits until they walk into the Chantry before she starts moving

Her steps are silent, and she’s largely ignored when she enters. A few of the sisters inside greet her, and she nods in response. She almost misses the two, but she spots the edge of Lavellan’s cloak rounding about the edge of a doorway. They’re heading downstairs to the cellars. Leliana almost snorts. There’s nothing left worth pilfering in there other than old journals and a few pieces of gold scattered here and there. She decides that it’s not worth her time and turns to leave when she pauses.

Her curiosity prickles too much at the back of her mind for her to ignore, and so, she slips into the shadows to go down the stairs too. The air is cold and dank, and Leliana wrinkles her nose at the musty scent. She waits in a dark corner unlit by the flickering lantern light Lavellan must have lit. The fire flickers unnaturally; it had to be magical in nature. Varric leans over a lock and within seconds, he has it unlocked.

“Look at that,” he says with a touch of pride. “Still haven’t lost it.”

“You are amazing, Varric,” Lavellan sighs. She bends over the chest and brings out a pile of old blankets and a tattered book. She hands the book over to Varric and asks, “What does it say?” Then, she turns back to digging through the chest.

Varric pages through the old book before he says, “Oh, now _that_ doesn’t look good. Here, let me read you this part out loud. ‘It took weeks scrubbing bloodstains from the stone. One of two things is true: either stone is more porous than I thought, or Maker's beard, there must've been a lot of blood.’ Shit, what were these people doing down here?”

“Blood?” Lavellan echoes. “I cannot imagine what they would need blood for. Is this not a Chantry? They do not like blood.”

“No, they sure don’t, Birdie,” Varric mumbles as he continues to flip through the book. He finally shrugs and hands it back to Lavellan. “Here, keep it. You can have some sweet night-time reading with that thing. The handwriting isn’t great, but it’s not bad.”

 _“Ma serannas,”_ Lavellan says as she runs her fingers over the cover of the book. “I will take care of the book then.”

Leliana shuts her eyes and tries to stem the tide of memories that threaten to overtake her. On silent steps, she leaves before Lavellan and Varric notice her.

They — she, the Warden, the others — sought the ashes of Andraste here once. Leliana thinks she can remember the iron tang of human blood hanging in the air or the sight of the finger bone in the child’s small hand in Haven that day. She makes it outside and back to the comfort of her own tent. Leliana sinks down heavily on her chair and stares absently at the Chantry. Lavellan and Varric leave as surreptitiously as they came, and Leliana wonders at how quickly the time passed.

The letter with the information about Lavellan is still on the table, and Leliana slides it into her pocket. So many years, so much blood and machinations she has seen. What was another false name when Leliana bore so many and assigned even more in the past? She is a different person than who she once was during her travels with her Warden, and as Leliana continues her work, she briefly wonders if the change was worth it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Josephine finds out that the way to Lavellan's heart is through food.

During one meeting with Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, and Lavellan, she notices the way Lavellan's eyes constantly stray towards the small bun Cullen has in his hand. He must have stopped by the kitchens for a quick meal before he came here, and like the dunce he can be, he doesn't notice Lavellan's straying eyes. Josephine glances at Leliana and sees that the spymaster notices it too. Josephine checks over with Cassandra, but the Seeker is too busy arguing over military training with Cullen. Josephine sighs and jots something down on her tablet instead.

From then on, Josephine can't help but notice how gaunt Lavellan looks. The elf is all lean and lanky lines with corded muscles lining her arms and legs. However, Josephine swears that she could circle around Lavellan's entire wrist with a single hand. Once, Lavellan runs around shirtless in the training ring on a particularly hot day, and as Cassandra yells at her to put a shirt on, Josephine counts the ribs jutting out from Lavellan's skin. She can count each set of ribs and see the prominence of her clavicle and her shoulder blades.

At dinner once, Josephine elects to sit in the loud and noisy tavern beside Lavellan. She eats with small, bird-like bites, but slowly and surely, Lavellan demolishes the entire helping of food. Josephine only nibbles on her food, and Lavellan watches her eat with a steady gaze. "Would you like some more?" Josephine finally says as she pushes her plate towards Lavellan.

A small smile curls around Lavellan's lips as she nods and reaches out for the food.  However, she pauses before her first bite and says, "Ambassador Josephine Cherette Montilyet, do you have something that you want to say?"

Josephine sighs and rubs her temples. "Herald, you do not need to recite the entirety of someone's title and name in order to gain their attention," she says. It's a habit Lavellan's stuck to ever since the Conclave. Granted, it's only been a couple of weeks since then, but Lavellan stubbornly used their full names and titles whenever she spoke to them. Cassandra asked her if she could make Lavellan stop. Josephine wonders if any one of them can truly _make_ Lavellan do something against her free will. Despite her placid appearance, Josephine suspects there is iron to Lavellan. She’s seen the same stubbornness in too many nobles to mistake it as anything less. She moves on from that train of thought to say, “Were you that hungry, your Worship?”

Lavellan immediately wrinkles her nose and says, “Do not call me that.”

Ah, there it is. That stubbornness shining through. Prod her just enough and that streak shines right through. Josephine folds her hands and says, “My apologies, Lavellan. But were you really that hungry? Do you not get enough food? Should I speak with the kitchens?”

Lavellan shakes her head and laughs, “No, please do not worry. I am used to hunger, but I do not hunger here.”

“Used to hunger?” Josephine echoes. Sometimes, all it takes is a little bit more prodding to get all the right pieces into place. Some call this manipulation, but Josephine prefers to call it by a different name. Acquainting herself with someone new, perhaps. All she wants to know is a little more about the Herald she is advertising across Thedas, and Josephine will entirely admit that concern is motivating half of the matter as well. Lavellan simply looks too thin to be healthy. She leans in closer, just a few degrees more, and asks, “Tell me, Lavellan, if there is anyone treating you poorly in Haven, let me know and I will handle it.”

Lavellan waves it off and chews a bite of food before she says, “No, I have said it once and I will say it again. Do not worry. I just enjoy eating. It feels like something special. Something different.” She gestures down to their food. Mashed potatoes and gravy, some unidentifiable Fereldan stew, and a thick slice of bread. Certainly not what Josephine prefers to eat every day, but it is a small price to pay for what she wants to learn about Lavellan. The elf shrugs and says, “We did not have the chance to eat food like this every day in my clan. We would have something simpler, something rougher, than this. Still food, but this is different. I am not used to it yet. I like that.”

Josephine’s heart almost breaks over Lavellan’s simple honesty.

The next day, after their usual meeting over their makeshift war table, Josephine beckons Lavellan closer. “Here,” she says as she extends her hand out. On her palm are two foil-wrapped candies from her native Antiva. “These are candies from my home. It’s just some spun sugar with flavoring, but I thought you might like some.”

Lavellan blinks before looking at the candies, then at Josephine, then back at the candies. “Truly?” she asks softly, almost in awe. The foil gleams in the lantern light, and Lavellan pokes at them with a single finger. “Were these not expensive? Varric says that Antiva is very, very far from here. And these are yours, not mine.”

“I have more in my office,” Josephine smiles. “And besides, everyone needs a sweet treat now and then.”

Lavellan nods before she carefully and painstakingly unwraps a single candy. When she pops it into her mouth, she shuts her eyes and savors the flavor with a dreamy expression. “Josephine,” she breathes out. “This is wonderful.”

“You’re welcome,” Josephine says automatically before she almost stumbles over her words. Josephine. Her name without any title or middle name or last name. She seizes the victory with a sense of triumph.

The next day, Josephine brings chestnuts and candies in her pockets. Lavellan stows the candies in her pockets for later and quietly roasts the chestnuts in her hands with magical heat. The warm scent fills the room, and more often than not, Josephine catches Cullen’s gaze straying towards the chestnuts in Lavellan’s hands. Lavellan distributes the chestnuts out once they’re all done, and they cease their meeting for a few moments of comfortable quiet. Somehow, that becomes a strange tradition, and every Tuesday turns into a chestnut meeting where one of the advisors brings a pocket’s worth of nuts for Lavellan to roast. Lavellan always picks out the best nuts for Cassandra though, and both Leliana and Josephine share a meaningful look. It was a good idea to keep Cassandra rather than calling in more templars to hold Lavellan down.

Josephine watches over Lavellan though. Leliana and Cassandra do the same, but the ambassador knows it’s for different reasons. Trust — or more like a lack of trust — keeps them watching, but Josephine watches with dignity and heart. Because Lavellan seems to hold a gift for connecting them whether it be her open expression or generous mind, and Josephine does not want her to break before then. Because Josephine thinks Lavellan is too frail, too thin, despite the steel will and determination that lies beneath her skin. Because Josephine’s heart bleeds for this wisp of an elf who has to save them all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Iron Bull suddenly realizes that Lavellan is the most dangerous out of the row of Inquisition members he stands before.

At first, he pegs Seeker Pentaghast as the most dangerous one. Tethras has no power if he did not have his quill or his tongue to weave his words with, and both are easily taken away. Solas is a mage, and like all mages, he is soft and easy to puncture with a well-placed strike. Move fast enough and you could avoid the streams of magic radiating off a mage’s hand. The only danger he pegs on Solas is the keenness of his gaze. Observant one, that one.

Lavellan? Lavellan is quiet and placid and sweet and calm. All these adjectives are all that he adds to Lavellan’s dossier in his mind.

He lays out his terms, simple and clear. Cassandra tenses when he moves too close to her Herald, and he notes that down. This one was protective, perhaps moreso than he originally expected. The Herald is the one to take the document first, and he notes the way her eyes slide blankly across the words. Good. This one doesn’t know how to read then. Dalish came to the Chargers only knowing a few letters in Common. Bull recognizes this.

However, he sees the way she bides her time. Pretends to read. Her gaze flicks over to Pentaghast and Tethras first before she flips the page over. Clever, this one. Also skittish. Understandable considering her status as an elven mage with a Mark on her hand identical to the Breach that killed the Divine. All of it were once conjectures in his head, but now that the Herald herself stands in front of him, he checks each one off as correct.

Innocent. Naive. Skittish. Quiet. Gentle. _Kost_ , he names her. Peace. She does not look like she could hurt much with her frail appearance. Even during the battle, she stood near the battle and cast barriers only. Solas took the main brunt of the magical fight and cast cold and ice while she wove barriers around each fighter on the battlefield. The barriers were tenuous at best too, so he marks her down as a weak _saarebas._

Then, he notices the way her eyes latch onto something on the back of the page. So, she knows numbers at least. Her eyes fix onto it with a sudden strength that he does not expect. He hesitates over the labels in his head as she stares with a surprising intensity on the paper. Her lips curve into a soft smile, and she looks up at the Iron Bull.

“May I negotiate?” she asks sweetly.

The part that is Hissrad expects this much, and it’s not a surprise based on Pentaghast’s relaxed shoulders and the glint in Tethras’s eyes. Tethras steps forward without even bothering to read the papers, so he must have some plan already stowed away in his clever mind. One did not become a ruler of a financial empire without being clever. The Iron Bull knows how to deal with dwarves like him.

However, Lavellan clears her throat quietly. Her eyes flick down to the paper — Bull watches her throat bob as she swallows — and she says, “These numbers. I would like to talk about these numbers.”

“Go right ahead,” Bull chooses to say. “Happy to talk about prices with a new boss.”

That gets a giggle out of Lavellan. WIth her eyes still alight with mirth, she says, “I will not be your boss if I say no. And I think we should talk about these numbers to decide if I say yes or no.”

She sits down on an overturned boat, heedless of the waves and sea salt that flick up to meet her skin. With a snap of her fingers, they turn into glittering, frozen ice that wrap around Lavellan in a graceful arc. That’s the first sign that makes Bull wonder if there is something more to the Herald than he expects. She raises her hand and pats the space beside her expectantly.

Krem opens his mouth to say something, but Bull places a hand on his shoulder. The weight on Krem’s shoulders makes him shut his mouth. Bull moves over to sit beside Lavellan, and Lavellan scoots closer to him until their thighs are touching. She leans over and he notes that she smells like embrium and ambrette and something sharper and wilder underneath all of that. The scent of magic, he supposes, but she also smells like blood and the sea from her recent fight. She lays the paper out on his thigh as if it were a desk and taps one number in the third column, four spaces down.

“This number,” she asks. “Why is it so large compared to the other ones.”

“Material costs,” he answers. “Fights are expensive, little boss, and we gotta pay for weapon and armor repairs.” It isn’t the right answer. That number was for buying wine and ale, and he purposefully made that number larger to see if anyone would notice. In the corner of his eye, he can see Tethras straining to see more of the paper. He almost laughs; he bets that dwarf wishes he got his hands on the paper before Lavellan.

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “Then why is it so far down compared to all the other numbers? Would an important cost like that not be further up?” Her finger slides from that number to the first column where all of their real battle-related expenses are. “Also, I think this number may be the number you want to be paid. But if you divide that by the number of Chargers you have, you get a number that is much larger than the price your lieutenant quoted  — Krem, I think his name was, yes, Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, lovely name, reminds me of the cream custard Warden Blackwall likes — and I think it is incorrect.” She raises her gaze up at the Iron Bull and bats them at him, fluttery eyelashes and all. “Unless, you have more Chargers hiding in your pockets, Mister Iron Bull, but you mentioned at the very beginning of this conversation to Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast that you had all of your Chargers with you today.”

The Iron Bull hears a loud groan — likely from the Seeker herself — and assumes that this recitation of names is a habit of Lavellan’s. But also, he looks at her more carefully. Lavellan smiles when she notices his look, but her lips curl back just enough to reveal the sharp points of her teeth. He knows this look. It’s the look of a hunter who spots her prey.

Lavellan slides her finger to the second column and circles around it. “And this column of numbers. What are you using this money for to have so much of it per Charger? Even if you wanted to use it for armor and weapon repairs, we have blacksmiths at Haven. They are very kind. One blacksmith has a daughter who likes ducks, and that blacksmith is very good at fixing armor. The daughter? Not very good at fixing armor, but good at taking care of ducks. Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford also said that he was going to get more blacksmiths in Haven to handle the new wave of work, so there will be even more people to fix your things if you need them. So, even then, we can reduce the number, yes?”

She tilts her head and says, “And food costs gold. I know you must have costs for food and rations and important things like that. That is good. Hunger is not a good thing, especially for a large group.” She huffs out a breathy laugh as she says, “I should know best of all how that must feel. But if you join the Inquisition, we have a quartermaster of our own. I am sure we could include you in that list and provide food for you. There is also a cook that makes very good buns. We can give you buns, Mister Iron Bull, and reduce that food cost down by several thousand gold. Unless, you want to buy something expensive like food from Orlais. There is an Orlesian noble at Haven who tells me that they like eating expensive food like cah-vee-ar or something like that. But it does not sound very filling, Mister Iron Bull, and I think you would have to have filling food to fight well.” She lifts her head up and calls out, “Is that not right, Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia —”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence before Pentaghast replies curtly, “Yes, Herald, you’re right.”

Tethras takes a step back and surveys Lavellan and Iron Bull with a surprised look of satisfaction. Solas only smiles cryptically. So at least one person didn’t expect this to happen. Krem only blinks at Lavellan, stunned at the words that flow out of her mouth. Lavellan speaks slowly, shaping her mouth with care to enunciate each word properly. But this girl-elf, this Lavellan, this _Herald,_ is unstoppable.

Iron Bull looks at Lavellan now, and the same smile is on her face. But her eyes. Oh, her eyes are brighter than silverite and just as hard when she meets her gaze. There is no mirth in her eyes now. Only a knowledge that she is in the right and _he_ is in the wrong. Lavellan may not know how to read, but she must have had some experience with trade documents to know the typical order of costs.

“You’re right, I must’ve written down some things wrong,” Bull says with a falsely sheepish grin.

Lavellan returns the smile and says, “I do not think a Ben-Hassrath would get numbers wrong, Mister Iron Bull. You told me yourself that you were a spy, yes? I do not think spies would be bad with numbers. Otherwise, your Ben-Hassrath leaders would not be happy. I know our spymaster would not be happy if her agents could not write down numbers properly.”

Sharp, this one. He marks off each adjective with a sense of finality and replaces them. Keen, sharp, good at making educated guesses, intelligent, _dangerous_.

Their discussions continue, and they trade exchanges, balance numbers as if they were lives on the line. And in truth, they are. The Iron Bull is pricing each life of his Chargers to a distinct sum of gold, and the Herald is buying them, one by one. She manages to whittle down his price to half the sum he originally gave her, and he refuses to bend beyond that.

Lavellan looks up at the Iron Bull once more and says, “Very well then. I will say no.”

Bull blinks at her. She got their prices down this low, identified each and every discrepancy within their numbers despite her inability to read, and now, she says no?

Magic crackles across Lavellan’s skin as she stretches up towards the sky and cracks her knuckles. This is not some casual use of magic; this is a warning. She glances back at him and says, “I think you can bend a little more. I do not think you are giving a fair price like you say you are. Ambassador Josephine Cherette Montilyet told me that you once worked for a noble in Orlais for a lower amount twelve days ago at lunch time. We ate potatoes with gravy. She did not like the gravy, but I did. Anyhow, that job involved the same level of work as ours, according to her. Fighting and things like that. But we offer more than that noble did. So, no, I will not accept if you do not lower your price.”

“Fine with me, little _saarebas_ ,” he answers. “We’ve got more than our fair share of offers in Orlais.”

Lavellan’s smile turns saccharine sweet as she hops off the overturned boat. She brushes off the dampness of her clothes with fingers that burn red-hot with magical warmth before turning back to the Iron Bull. “You may have work now, but the work will die off as the war eats Orlais,” she says simply. “And there will be no more work to be had if the Breach is not closed. I wish you good luck with your work, Mister Iron Bull, I truly do. But know that there are wars beyond your control but not beyond ours. I hope you have a good day. _Dareth shiral,_ Ben-Hassrath Agent Iron Bull, _dareth shiral_ , Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi.”

She beckons to Tethras, to Solas, and to Pentaghast. All three of them look equally shocked, but she herds them along back to the Inquisition campsite that lies above the hill. Krem looks at the Herald and then back to Bull, and Bull watches them leave for three steps. Then, he calls out, “Herald!”

Lavellan pauses. She does not turn around.

“Why don’t we reconsider?” he tries.

She does not turn around.

If there is anything that the Iron Bull refuses to do, it is to beg. Is this position really worth it? He weighs his options and his chances before he bites down his pride. Better to beg than to lose this chance for information, for gold, and for prestige. Curiosity also fuels part of his decision. He wants to see more of what this Herald hides. So, he finally says, “I will lower my prices. Let’s try this again, Herald.”

Lavellan slowly turns around and holds up one finger. “One. You will not call me Herald or your Worship.” Second finger. “Two. We will agree to my price.”

“Fine by me,” he sighs as he heaves himself off the boat. Lavellan smiles for real now. Genuine and open and kind.

They settle agreements, and Lavellan walks away with a mercenary contract that was cut down to one-third of its original price. Impressive considering his former expectations, but as Lavellan and her companions leave, he adds _kost_ back to her mental dossier along with _hissera._ Hope.

She may be the most dangerous out of the four he met today, but at her core, he realizes her hope for peace that makes her the most dangerous. That same hope whets the blade of her magic and makes her dare where she normally would not.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Scout Lace Harding squints at their Herald as she scales the cliff jutting over the Hinterlands. Seeker Pentaghast is busy yelling something at her at the base of the cliff and holds her arms out wide, ready to catch Lavellan at any second. She glances back at Varric and jerks her thumb over to Cassandra and Lavellan. “Do those two have, you know, a thing?” she asks.

Varric snorts, “I can’t imagine the Seeker having a _thing_ with anyone, much less a Dalish mage. I mean, look at her, she’s Chantry through and through. Nah, I think she’s more interested in having her investment _not_ die on her before the Breach is even closed.” He pauses and taps his chin as he muses, “Does she even have the capacity to have a thing for anyone? Probably not. She’s so uptight.”

Solas considers their words with a contemplative expression. Lace doesn’t really know what the elven apostate is thinking of at any given moment. He almost looks constipated at times with the sheer amount he thinks about, and she’s heard rumors from other scouts at other Inquisition camps that he’s nearly impossible to wake up in the mornings. Still, doesn’t change the fact that he’s still a pretty smart guy. That’s why she listens when he finally says, “You may want to reconsider that statement, Master Tethras.”

“Hey now, what did I say about that Master Tethras bullshit,” Varric sharply says. “Varric and just Varric, alright? And shit, what do you mean ‘reconsider’? Look at Pentaghast. I don’t think she can even feel human emotion.”

“Everyone feels emotion, Varric,” Solas answers quietly. “Some of the quietest people in the world feel the most out of all of us.”

Lace weighs both of their opinions and decides on Solas. It’s just that there’s an undeniable spark between those two. She turns her gaze back towards the Herald who clambers down and jumps into the Seeker’s arms. Even from this distance, she can tell that the Herald is laughing loudly as she grabs Cassandra’s hands and swings her around in a circle. After gathering all the ore Lavellan gathered, they head back to camp.

Lace can see the Seeker’s frown from a mile away, and sure enough, Cassandra looks distinctly irritated. She dumps the ores on the requisition table and snaps, “I’ve told you this again and again, but don’t risk your life for something inconsequential like a bunch of rocks!”

Lavellan is thoroughly unfazed as she deposits her share of the ores on the table. “But the quartermaster said that she needed them,” she says easily. “And I was not in danger. You were there to catch me.”

“And what if I’m not there to save you?” Cassandra finally explodes. “I won’t always be there to protect you! I won’t be there to catch you or to be your shield. What will you do then?!”

Lace almost gasps out loud and muffles herself with her hand. Varric and Solas are wide-eyed as they watch on, and the other scouts at the camp stop whatever they’re doing. The Herald stops for a moment before she lays down the last ore on the table. She glances up at Cassandra with a bittersweet smile. “Then, I fear I would be lost,” Lavellan says, voice quiet and hushed. “I would not have made it this far without your protection, Cassandra.”

Even Lace knows about the Herald’s penchant for reciting names word for word, title for title, and the simple first name alone makes her pause. The Seeker blinks and sputters, now at a loss for words. Lavellan steps closer to her, dragging her hand across the surface of the table and leaving a streak of dirt behind. She reaches up to pat Cassandra’s shoulder and murmurs something that Lace can’t quite catch. When she glances back, she catches Varric and Solas leaning in and straining their ears to hear. But whatever their Herald says, no one knows.

Later, Lace helps pack potions and extra resources for the Herald when they venture deeper into the wilderness. The Seeker and the Herald help too, and they work so close together that their shoulders brush against each other. They pay it no heed, and in fact, they look comfortable together. Lace smiles to herself as she slides the last potion in its place.

Varric Tethras may say whatever he likes, but she knows a spark of love when she sees it.


	2. but she stays

Cassandra idly begins to observe Lavellan as they rest by a campfire in the Hinterlands. One. She is lovely. This is a truth that Cassandra is willing to admit. Two. She never stops working. Lavellan’s fingers are flying as they neatly braid elfroot with quick and nimble motions. Lavellan refused to budge from a particularly large patch of elfroot until they had harvested as much as they could, and although Cassandra sighs over the delay, she has to admit that it will be helpful for the refugees and their shaky, new start as the Inquisition.

“I used to do this all the time,” Lavellan suddenly says as she continues to braid. “Braid up the elfroot and hang them up to dry by the fire.”

Varric glances up from his worn notepad and pauses in his writing. “You do that often, Birdie” he asks.

Lavellan looks up, but her fingers continue to braid. “Yes,” she replies with a smile. “Always.” Her expression turns a little… Twisted. Sadder. Cassandra cannot identify the emotion.

“We needed it badly,” Lavellan tries to explain. She finishes the length of elfroot that she was on and neatly ties it off. She sets it to her side and rubs the pads of her index finger and thumb together. “The health and safety of the clan is the most important,” she finishes.

“Why though?” Cassandra can’t help but to ask. “I do not expect to see Dalish clans charging into war so much to merit it.”

Lavellan looks up, eyes widening. It looks cat-like, and they reflect the flickering firelight to the point where it looks like her own eyes are flickering light themselves. Her pointed ears flick back slightly as she spreads her hands and says frankly, “The _shemlen_ make it so. You never know when a village mob will attack or when the templars will come.” She chews on her lip and ponders over it as she says briefly, “The last time, we almost lost a scout and a child.” Lavellan presses her lips together and says softly, “I do not wish to remember the other times before that. I do not care to lose so many.” She reaches up to tug at a charm hanging around her neck, rolling the small wooden carving between her fingers. The elfroot juice stains the light wood a faint green, but Lavellan does not seem to mind.

Lavellan raises her eyes to look at Cassandra, and not for the first time, Cassandra thinks that there are shadows on her face, on her expression. However, they immediately clear away as Lavellan shakes her head and smiles a little bit. “And extra elfroot is always, _always_ , helpful to have,” she says. “People that wander and stray far away must have a way of surviving so that they can come home safe and sound. Wouldn’t you say so, Seeker Cassandra?”

She uses the title again.

Cassandra distantly remembers that Lavellan chose to help the scouts the first time the Breach flared up after Lavellan awoke.

Perhaps there is a connection, between the titles, the restrained formality, the way the Herald carries herself and others in a different way that Cassandra expects.

Cassandra sighs and says gently, “I am sorry for asking if that made you uncomfortable.” She pauses for just a moment before she plunges in and finishes, “You do not need to answer, Lavellan.” She is guilty of the same; she uses titles to refer to the Herald, no, Lavellan, as well despite her requests. She will try to do better.

Lavellan shakes her head and replies, “I am Dalish, I was not made to forget.” She laughs a little bit, airy and light, but her words are far from light. “Dwelling on the past does nothing,” she continues. Solas stops sketching with his charcoal pencil and regards Lavellan with the same, shining eyes of the elves. His left ear flicks slightly, and he leans in to listen closer as Lavellan finishes, “It is far better to save the people of today rather than the people of the past. They are already gone, and we must look towards the future by saving who we have now.”

 

* * *

 

 Varric squeezes a few more words out of his quill before it finally dies and cracks on him. He sighs heavily and pushes his chair back and saunters out of the tavern with his papers in his hand. Haven is full of things to write about; it's just not the ones that he wants to write about.

As he turns the corner to head back to his usual place by the campfire, he slams straight into a rather flustered elf. As he falls, he distinctly remembers a few collisions with another flustered elf that he used to know. He reaches his hands out to steady her despite her taller height and says, "Easy, Daisy—" He freezes momentarily, and the memory of a better day flickers away to show Lavellan in front of him instead of Merrill.  
  
"Oh, _ir abelas_ , I am _so_ sorry, Master Tethras, I—" she blurts out too quickly.

He holds one hand up to stop her and says firmly, "Varric. Master Tethras isn't me at all. What's got you so excited, birdie?"  
  
Frankly, the nickname is completely accurate. She's always got that look about her, that look that makes her look like a bird ready to take flight. And he knows that if she could, she would leave and fly away from this human place, if she could. But she doesn't.  
  
"I have found more bunches of elfroot and even crystal grace, Varric! Crystal grace! I must take them to Adan!”  She smiles, wide and open, and she holds up her hands to reveal two baskets piled high with braided plant stalks. Varric can't help but smile; the last time she found crystal grace, it was on the very edge of a cliff, and Cassandra nearly screamed her throat out raw when Lavellan almost slipped off while trying to pick it.  
  
Her expression turns a bit wistful as she says, "I used to gather and dry the herbs in my clan. It feels good to be useful, at least. I am glad that I can help in something that I am better at." She holds up her left hand ruefully, and the mark crackles green under the bandages that she's wrapped around it.  
  
Varric pats her and says, "You're doing the best that you can, birdie. And frankly, you're doing a lot of it."

Lavellan beams and then darts in to give Varric a hug. " _Ma serannas_ , Varric," she says before gathering up her baskets and a few fallen plants that spilled out during the collision.  
  
With a wave, Lavellan dashes off, and that same thought comes to Varric's mind again. As he turns to look at her go, he's reminded of the days when he used to follow behind another girl. He swore that he could see the mantle of a hero, a champion, on her shoulders then. He can see it the beginnings of it now too. It's immature and still not quite in place, but it's still there. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he wonders how he has the propensity for this. He's left his Hawke, but he's come back to another bird.

And he fears what is still yet to come for her.

 

* * *

 

 Lavellan has never tasted lyrium before.

It was always too precious, too rare, and reserved only for Keeper Deshanna in times of desperate need. She supposes that those times were exceedingly rare barring one time that she does not want to remember. That time stains her memory with blood and rage, but she sets that thought aside.

Regardless, she has never tasted lyrium before. Deshanna only kept two vials tucked carefully away in a small pouch made of cured deer hide inside one of her many drawers in the keeper’s aravel. But, Lavellan remembers the way it looked, shimmering blue and somehow entrancing.

But now, as she slumps over and struggles to catch her breath, Varric tips her head back. Lavellan struggles, trying to get away from Varric. _Cassandra, she must find Cassandra, she must check to see if she is alright, her precious companion, her lovely Cassandra._

“Sorry, Birdie,” he apologizes before he yanks out the stopper of a vial with his teeth and tips the contents in her mouth.

The taste of lyrium is electrifying, jolting her nerves into something more, something greater. it feels like her bones are resonating with a secret and haunting melody that rattles her senses and sets her magic alight. Her skin crackles and glows with excess magic, and Varric lets her go. Lavellan stumbles on her feet again and stares at the fortress of outlaws here in the seemingly endless wilds.

The bandits pause. And then one raises his blade and lunges at Cassandra.

Lavellan raises her hands, and with that same electrifying taste on the back of her tongue, she pulls the skies into her hands and sets a spark that lands at the feet of that singular bandit. Then, it spreads. The scent of ozone burns around her as she pulls a storm out of the very heavens. Lightning arcs from her hands to the first bandit near her. it spreads and branches, traveling to each and every enemy except her own companions.

Cassandra uses the opportunity to lunge and slash at the bandit that first moved, and he falls wordlessly to the ground. Varric follows suit by quickly reloading Bianca and firing a bolt straight into a bandit’s chest. Solas raises his hands and summons ice that completely encases a bandit behind Cassandra. She whirls around and slams her shield down to shatter him into shards.

Lavellan grits her teeth and tries to summon the storm again. It’s not nearly as large or powerful as the first blast, but it’s still enough to incapacitate a few more bandits that flow out of the fort. Electricity runs down her arms and off her fingers to fly into the paths that her first storm created.

The lyrium feels like it’s dancing in her gut, and Lavellan can’t help but think, _I understand why the templars drink their lyrium._ It’s a heady feeling that leaves her vision so close to spinning but not quite, and she can see her own veins faintly glowing beneath her skin. The Fade feels closer than ever, almost as if the Veil wasn’t there.

But, the moment subsides, and Lavellan is left to rely on her own pools of magic again. She almost wishes for another draught of lyrium, but she quickly stops that train of thought. She can understand why lyrium can be so powerful, so addictive, now.

 

* * *

 

Leliana and Cullen are bickering again. Josephine pinches the bridge of her nose as she stares down at the map, covered in small pins and figurines. She rolls her own pieces between the pads of her fingers of her spare hand

“Enough,” Lavellan says suddenly. Her voice is low and barely heard, but somehow, it makes everyone freeze in their place. It’s uncharacteristic, and Josephine rarely sees Lavllan use that kind of tone more than once. She lifts her gaze up, slow and measured, and pins Leliana and Cullen with a gaze colder than ice. “We waste our time arguing over decisions that must be made _faster._ ” She reaches over to tap the map directly over where Ferelden is. “I will go to Redcliffe first. Therinfal Redoubt can and will wait. I do not trust their offer of an alliance. At least I can fight back with my magic when Alexius springs the trap. I cannot fight back in Therinfal Redoubt should the same happen there.”

Cullen and Cassandra both begin to protest, but Lavellan holds up one hand. The Anchor sputters and casts the map in an eerie, green light. “Since when have the Templars or the Seekers offered a mage an alliance?” she asks. The light makes the hollows of her cheeks appear even sharper and more gaunt, and the lines of her vallaslin stretch darkly across her skin. “I am Dalish, I am elvhen, and I am a mage. I am not the type of person they would willingly cast their support behind. Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford, even you were not willing to support me as a Herald or a leader within the Inquisition. What makes you think your brothers and sisters will not think the same?”

Cullen and Cassandra grudgingly subside, and Lavellan glances over to Leliana. “Instead, we can send the Bull’s Chargers to investigate the area. That is what we hired them for, yes?” she says.

Josephine hides a smile. She heard stories about how Lavellan tricked the Iron Bull into offering up a third of his original price. Clever girl, Lavellan was. Her sentiments are only supported as the days go on. She may not believe that she was Maker-sent. To Josephine, there are no such things as the Maker’s grace. You are only in the right place at the right time. The most you can do is to change your surroundings so that you know you are in the right place. That is what the Game demands from you, and Lavellan seems to practice that sort of philosophy despite not knowing a single whit about the Game or Orlais.

“I can send in some of my scouts to cause a distraction after you investigate Redcliffe,” Leliana offers. “That way, the Chargers can investigate the area thoroughly.”

“Why not send some of my men?” Cullen objects. Josephine knows that it is motivated in part by Leliana’s constant snubbing. He is eager to prove his men to the Herald, no matter how small it may be.

Lavellan shakes her head. “Then they will know that there are people coming. Better to work quickly and quietly. You do not send a trumpeting halla to do a wolf’s work, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford.”

Cullen quiets, but Josephine can see the displeasure gathering at the corners of his lips. A storm is coming; she has no doubt about that. That is one thing about the job that is unfamiliar to her. In Orlais, displeasure was hidden and sharpened in the shadows. Here, it is out there in the open. On one hand, it’s easier to avert problems in their small council of advisors. On the other hand, it’s utterly bothersome to deal with.

Lavellan notices as well and says, “Do you have an issue you would like to discuss, Commander Cullen Stanton —”

“It’s fine,” he bites out. “You are correct, Herald, and if you are so set on going to Redcliffe, then I will not stop you.”

Josephine makes a note for herself. Cheer up the Commander so that he does not become a thorn in their sides as they prepare to close the Breach. A strong cup of Fereldan tea and some mabari puppies should do.

 

* * *

 

Solas can taste the acrid taste of fear on the back of his tongue as he enters a new dimension of the Fade. The landscape laps around his feet like the tides of a different sea, and the dream wavers at the edge. He sighs and looks up to see a reddened sky and spires of red crystal stretch up to the sky. Strangely, the scent of pure, blue lyrium lies heavy and redolent in the air. Underneath that, the scent of blood trails everything else. It’s a strange combination; iron and lightning combine together to form a kind of memory that stings and burns Solas’s eyes.

In the far distance, he can hear a guttural scream and a surge of magic. In the center of a flaming white corona, he can see the outline of a woman with her hands outstretched. One hand glows brighter than the other, and with wide eyes, Solas hurries over to yank the Herald out of the throes of a nightmare.

The landscape is surprisingly flat, and tall grasses wave lazily, back and forth and back and forth, as Solas pushes his way through them. They’re deceptively sharp though, and they leave thin and shallow cuts along his exposed skin when he runs through them. Then, ghostly-white aravels surge up in the sea of grass, their sails billowing with an unseen and unfelt wind. Their white sails are spattered with what he hopes is red paint. The red drips along the rails and edges of the aravels. Rope and fabric flutter in the wind, yet no sound comes out.

At the center of the corona, he sees Lavellan in all of her flaming glory. For a second, Solas wryly thinks that this is the very image of Andraste that the humans idealize, but his thoughts come to a screeching halt when he circles around to face Lavellan. Through her heart lies a sword made of lyrium. Solas’s mouth drops as he recognizes the distinct shape of it: a Templar’s sword of mercy. Despair and fear and wrath all circle around her in a twisting miasma of emotion, all drawn to the light in her hand like moths to a flame.

With urgency, Solas steps through the flame, shielding his face with his left forearm. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down his skin as he tries to approach her. Divine fire licks up his arm, and for a moment, he’s brought back to different memories of an older city, an older goddess. However, he grits his teeth and closes his hand on Lavellan’s left hand.

A rush of power surges through his veins and threatens to overwhelm him. In response, he digs in his heels and snarls right back at it. This is _his_ domain, the domain of dreams, and he will _not_ be bested. The power barely yields to him anymore, but he yanks as hard as he can until he falls backwards. He keeps Lavellan's hand tightly clasped in his, and Solas quietly prays to a god he does not believe in as he falls further and further.

Finally, he can feel the light tendrils of Lavellan’s mana reach out to the fabric of dreams around them. The Fade answers to her call, and Solas can finally wrap the Fade into something more malleable and agreeable. The spires of twisted lyrium fade into crystal and gold, and the scent of blood and lyrium transitions to a lighter, airier scent of golden pears and cherry blossoms. It’s a familiar sight to Solas; he’s used to dreaming up this scene on nights when nostalgia and melancholy becomes too much to stand.

Lavellan stumbles when her feet land on the ground, and she hunches over the ground, choking and coughing on the acrid breaths still in her lungs. The Anchor glows brighter when she clasps her hands over her heart, and it takes her a while to soothe her aching body. When she glances up, Solas winces. The bright light makes the dried blood and vallaslin on her face stand out even more.

“Cassandra? No, Solas, _lethallin,_ where… Where am I? This isn’t the Free Marches,” she asks in her own Dalish tongue. It’s a language cobbled together from the shards that were leftover from Elvhenan, and honestly, it’s a horrendous mix of old and new.

Solas wants to sigh and shake his head when he hears the words, but he replies back in elvhen, “You are in my dream. I found you in a nightmare and pulled you out.”

Lavellan cocks her head at the new syntax and words, and she bites her lip as she tries to parse the old language. However, the Anchor burns a little brighter, and her expression grows a little clearer. _“Ma serannas,”_ she whispers. “I dreamed of Redcliffe again.”

The world around them warps at the edge and offers a glimpse of a castle torn asunder with red lyrium. Solas glances behind Lavellan and glimpses a shade of Cassandra. This Cassandra flickers at the edges, but the red lyrium tainting her body is clear to see. She faces a ghost of Lavellan and strokes her cheek before bearing her shield and leaving.

Lavellan looks at him but but does not look behind. Instead, she flashes a wan smile at Solas and says, “Do you see Redcliffe behind me? I know I have told you about what I have seen before. I said it once and I will say it again. I am glad that you are all safe and sound.”  
  
It’s true. The day after the Herald left Redcliffe, she came stumbling to his door with a mug of warm milk and honey and a shaking apology. He was not the only one she came to either. He’s already heard of Varric and Cassandra and the others within the Herald’s inner circle receiving the same kind of visit. Solas remembers accepting the milk and ushering her inside to sit. Lavellan's eyes were unnaturally large and wide when she told him of a warped future where red lyrium stabbed through his skin and warped his magic. Solas couldn’t imagine a world like that, but he saw the way she tripped over her words in aching grief. But most importantly, he remembers the way she gripped his hands and promised in a low voice, “I will never let that happen to you, I swear, I will protect you.”  
  
She sighs and stares up at the crystal spires. “It would be better if red lyrium did not exist,” she says quietly. “It has a maddening song that digs beneath your skin. It hurts when it tears out of your flesh.” She says it in such a matter-of-fact tone that makes it seem as though she’s experienced it herself. Judging from the shadows that cross her face, she must have in some shape or form. Solas pauses and reconsiders her.

The memory of Cassandra in the future repeats behind Lavellan. This time, the ghost of Cassandra bends her head down to kiss Lavellan’s forehead before she leaves with her shield.  
  
Lavellan wraps her arms around herself and softly says, “I am sorry, I did not mean to distract you from your dream or talk about dark subjects.”

“No,” Solas finds himself saying. “I’m interested in what you have to say and dream. I’m glad that I was able to help.” To his surprise, he’s absolutely genuine with every part of his words.

Lavellan glances at him with an edge of surprise, and she laughs, “I am glad then.” 

When Solas wakes up, he wakes up early enough to see the rising dawn over the snowy hillscape of Haven. It’s rare for him to wake up so early, but he can still hear the remnants of Lavellan’s laughter. It’s colder and higher than it normally is — the warmth seems drained out of it — but he turns over on his bed and tries to go to sleep again.

It probably doesn’t mean much. The Herald will be fine.

Still, he feels a niggling worry at the back of his mind. Messengers of gods do not get away unharmed so easily. God-fire still touches them, singes their edges, burns their footsteps. He knows this truth as surely as anything else in the world. The Herald would not be exempt from that. He remembers her standing there in the sea of blade-like grass with burning aravels and red lyrium all around her. Her worst nightmare.

She is not as innocent or naive as he initially believed.

 

* * *

 

 Cullen doesn’t like the Herald.

She’s an elven mage. It reminds him too much of _her._ She even has the same dark hair. When her back is turned, Cullen has to hold in his breath and keep himself from shaking from the familiar sight. Pointed ears that prick up from a sheet of dark hair that cascades down her back, a single hand outstretched to caress a stray thread of magic in the air, a small tune hummed underneath her breath, the slight sway of her body to the rhythm of the magic that resonates in the air. But when Lavellan turns around, the image is shattered. He sees the Herald with branches that bloom in lines across her cheeks and the shards of green light that splay out from her hand.

Surana bears no branches on her face, and she bears no olive branches for people of his kind. Surana is a different type of person, quiet and reserved and fully aware of the power dynamic of the Circle. That is another similarity; they both fear templars and with good reason. They both avoid him with careful footsteps and averted gazes.

Lavellan is wilder, carefree, and her magic blooms outward like Surana’s never did. Surana keeps her mana on a tight leash and uses it with a careful, deadly precision while Lavellan sweeps up her magic and casts it out into the skies like a wide net. But both of them have the same, soft voice. Lavellan’s voice lilts and broadens on different syllables than Surana does, but it scares him. The similarity scares him too much.

He wishes he had lyrium to soothe the aches that spread out underneath his skin. The claws of that terrible, terrible ache dig into his skull, and his head pounds with the sheer pain of it. He bends over the war table, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the wood. He sees her in his mind’s eye, but then, the memory warps into a demon with curling horns and glinting eyes. Those are not Surana’s eyes. They always got the color of her eyes wrong.

When he looks up, he sees Lavellan’s eyes looking steadily at him. Her gaze feels like it’s penetrating him and seeing every shameful memory and action he’s ever done in his entire life.

He does not like the Herald. She reminds him too much of what he’s done wrong in the world.

“Are you alright, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford?” she inquires. She folds her hands behind her back and sways on her feet, waiting for a reply.

Cullen grits his teeth and tries to ignore the way his name sounds the same in her mouth. “Yes, your Worship,” he says.

Her eyes narrow and she says, “Do not call me that. I am not Maker-sent or god-forged. I am Lavellan. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He tries to smile, but it is weak. “Then, just call me Cullen,” he says instead. “Cullen is fine. Rutherford if you must. No one calls me Stanton.” Not anymore, at least. His mother and his sister use his full name to berate him, and that’s about it.

“I would not want to disrespect a templar, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” Lavellan says with a flash of teeth. A brief smile before it flickers out into a thin line.

Perhaps Lavellan is using it on purpose to berate him. It wouldn’t be surprising. There is much to berate him for, at least, in Lavellan’s world.

“Ex-templar,” he corrects. “I left the Order.”

“You may leave the Order, but does the Order leave you?” she wonders. “A moment’s decision does not erase years and years, Commander.”

Commander. He’ll take it over his full name. He straightens his back and bites down the groan of pain that threatens to spill out of him with the sudden movement. “It doesn’t,” he admits. “But I stopped taking the lyrium. I can’t do anything a templar could, your Wor— Lavellan. I’m just a regular man now.”

Lavellan laughs, but there is no joy in it. “An admirable decision, Commander,” she says. “May I ask why?”

Ah. The question was bound to come up sooner or later. “How much do you know about me?” he asks.

“How much do you think I know?” Lavellan returns.

Cullen runs a hand through his hair. His pomade sticks to his fingers, and he wipes his hand against his thigh underneath the table. “I have no idea,” he says honestly. “But there is no secret about it. Very well, your Wor— Maker’s breath, I really need to stop that. I was born in Honnleath and then joined the Order. I was originally stationed at Ferelden’s Circle by Lake Calenhad. After the Blight, I was… I was moved to Greenfell to ‘level out’ so to say before being transferred to Kirkwall under Knight-Commander Meredith.”

Lavellan moves over to hop up on the war table. She sits down on the Amaranthine ocean and comments, “Rumors about Knight-Commander Meredith were not favorable. They say she was a demon ruling over the Gallows. Were you like her? What do you mean by leveling out?”

Cullen hesitates. He doesn’t know if he should say it, but the alternative is worse: having Leliana tell her what his past was. That pushes him to say, “The Mage Tower at Ferelden was taken over by a blood mage. Demons overran the place, and many mages and templars died. I was taken captive and tortured by demons until the Warden…” He falters. “Before the Warden saved me. But I did not repay her with gratitude. No, I.. I turned on her. I insisted that all the mages needed to die for their crimes. I would not bend, so Knight-Commander Greagoir had me sent to Greenfell to calm down before being restationed at a different Circle.”

Lavellan examines him. Her gaze lingers on the scar running down his lip before resting on his breastplate. There is no Sword of Mercy on it. He does not wear that symbol any longer. Her lips purse together before she asks, “Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Do not play dumb with me, Commander.”

Ah So there really was no way he could get out of this. Cullen ducks his head and confesses, “I do. I have seen the suffering that magic can inflict, and because of that, I’ve treated mages with distrust in the past. Without… Without cause, at times. That was unworthy of me.”

“Would you do it again?” Lavellan presses. Her fingers drum against Rivain on the map as she observes Cullen. “Would you kill a mage again?”

Cullen stares back at her, feeling trapped. His hands begin to shake, and the familiar pangs of lyrium-ache resounds in his veins. “I think…” he says, almost faltering once more. “I think there should be safeguards to protect people from mages, including other mages. Magic can hurt anyone no matter who they are. If there is cause for concern, then, yes, I would guard people from that magical danger. If there is an abomination, I will kill it. But will I kill a mage for no reason? No, I would not. I will try not to treat mages as I have done in the past, Lavellan. I will try.”

Lavellan remains silent, but her eyes are still trained on him. Her gaze is stronger than silverite, and it rivals many of the gazes his former commanders once had. She hops off the map and reaches over to tap on the Free Marches. “I lived in the Free Marches before the Conclave,” she says simply. “I was in Kirkwall once during Meredith’s time as Knight-Commander, and I have heard the rumors of her wavering leadership. I have also heard rumors of her second in command. Meredith’s dog, we called him. But once, we were in Kirkwall. We were trading in the Lowtown market, and there was one of our mages who bumped up against a templar. She accidentally let a spark fly from her fingers because she was so scared. The templar saw, and only the templar saw. But the templar let her go.”

At first, Cullen does not know why she is mentioning this, why her words are suddenly diverting over to this out of all things. But then, he remembers. He remembers because there were two Dalish elves with bows slung over their backs and trinkets and pelts in their arms. One was a girl who tripped and fell into him, spilling trinkets out on the dust of Lowtown and sending sparks flying from her hands.

She had branches lined across her cheeks.

Lavellan pins with him a gaze and repeats, “The templar let her go. For what reason, I do not know, but Meredith’s dog let her go.” She turns to leave but before she opens the door, she pauses. Without turning around, she says, “I trust your judgement, Commander. But do not let that trust go unanswered. _Dar’atisha_ , Commander, go in peace.”

She leaves, and Cullen leans against the war table once more. He sucks in a deep breath and tries to ground himself. To be honest, he doesn’t know why he let Lavellan go so long ago. He can’t remember the thoughts that went through his head then. He remembers reaching out for Lavellan’s arm and steadying her in her fall. No one else in the market square saw or stopped to help her, but he remembers the wide-eyed look of sheer terror on her companion’s face. A boy with the same face as hers, he thinks. Different tattoos, but undeniably the same face with the same eyes and same shade of hair. When he looked down at the elf in his arms, she looked petrified.

But he let her go. Bent down to help her pick up her trinkets. Placed them back in her spark-less hands. Watched as she left in a hurry. Watched as she disappeared in the crowd.

Cullen does not like the Herald. She sets him on edge, reminds him of another mage, dredges up memories in the back of his head that he thought he forgot so long ago. But he does not let her trust go unanswered. He lets her go to Redcliffe and sends guards along with her to protect her. He has his sword ready to protect her should the closing of the Breach go wrong, and he is one of the first to spring to Haven’s defense.

He watches her drag people from burning fires in Haven. He watches her pause before she turns her back and plunges back into the fray to save them all. And it’s then that he realizes that it is not the Herald he dislikes but the old part of himself that used to reside within his body. The old, twisted, broken part of himself that used to be known as Templar and as Meredith’s dog.

He leaves that part of himself buried in the snows that cover Haven and helps Cassandra bring Lavellan’s cold, nearly-frozen body back to camp.

Cullen does not like being reminded of his past, but sometimes, that is what he needs to ground himself and keep moving on in his world.

 

* * *

 

 Reparations for Skyhold are miserably slow.

First off, there are very few people willing to haul materials up a mountain to a remote, abandoned fortress. Varric watches Josephine wring her hands over the matter again and again and again. Next, there aren’t enough food and resources to keep every refugee from Haven going. And again, that first issue comes back into play.

It’s like watching Kirkwall all over again. You patch together the pieces you have the best you can and move on. He didn’t expect to be this attached to the Inquisition. But he is. Damn, he was always weak for fledgling heroes. He should’ve known he was in for this, hook, line, and sinker when he first met Lavellan.

And there she is, dancing along the edges of the rooftops.

Lavellan recently discovered that she was immune to being hurt from falls and things of that sort after she stumbled on the stone steps up to Skyhold’s main hall. He remembers the sheer terror pounding through his heart and hurrying to Lavellan’s crumpled form on the ground. She only blinked up at him and said incredulously, “Varric, I feel fine.”

Now, she’s abusing that right as she jumps across the moss-covered tiles. Varric isn’t worried. She’ll be fine. “Shit, Birdie,” he only sighs. “You’re going to give someone a heart attack.” She can’t hear him, so she keeps on humming and dancing on the roof.

“Lavellan!”

Cassandra screams Lavellan’s name out and dashes through the crowd. Everyone freezes around her before they immediately part a way for her. One person doesn’t move out of the way fast enough and nearly gets barreled over by Cassandra. She sprints faster than Varric’s ever seen her run. Well, Varric thinks that Cassandra ran faster in Haven to pull Lavellan out before a burning hut crumbled down on top of her. But still, she runs, arms stretched out, trying to figure out where Lavellan will fall.

Lavellan pauses and takes one step towards Cassandra. However, her foot slips on a patch of moss and she falls. Varric knows how this will end. Somehow, Lavellan will land on her feet, crouched down and hands pressed down to the ground. Skyhold will catch her and hold her close. But Varric doesn’t think Cassandra knows it.

In that moment just before Lavellan falls, Varric wonders if he should tell Cassandra. But the cruel part of him, the angry, bitter part of him that once wove a tale to save a friend, keeps him from calling out to the Seeker.

Cassandra dives right where Lavellan is poised to fall, and she braces herself against the grass to catch Lavellan. The elf lands just as Varric expects, rolling down and landing with her feet on the ground. But she loses her balance as she tries to avoid Cassandra. Lavellan tips forward and falls into Cassandra’s waiting arms.

Cassandra clutches her tight, and even from his place, Varric can see the Seeker’s shoulders shaking. He looks at her and thinks back to when they found Lavellan floundering and half-dead in the snow. He observes Cassandra now, and he thinks she’s sobbing.

Perhaps… He should’ve told her.

He watches Lavellan pull away from Cassandra just enough to cup her cheeks and wipe the tears away. She says something that Varric can’t tell, but she’s definitely comforting Cassandra. Cassandra herself looks miserable and angry with blotchy red cheeks and teary eyes, and Lavellan forces out a laugh, trying to cheer her Seeker up.

Varric turns away and tries to push the memory out of his mind. But the guilt remains.

 

* * *

 

 After Haven’s fall and her brutal trek through the wilderness, Solas notices a different change about her. The other members of her little inner circle and her advisors also notice. Still, Lavellan comes to him frequently with her questions. He tries to answer them as best as he can without revealing too much or too little. She comes to him as he is preparing to add another layer of paint to his mural, and he decides to ask him a few questions of his own.

“You are Inquisitor now, yes?” he starts off as he mixes some paint together on his small palette.

“Yes,” she replies with a sigh. “I still think that they made the wrong decision. It feels stranger to hear people call me Inquisitor. Herald was bad enough. I am called by too many names now.”

Solas begins to swirl a brush through the paint and leans in closer to the wall to paint a few details. He continues, “Do you not like that? Many names could mean much honor, accolades to your name.” He cannot help but fear her answer. Power corrupts more than anything else. He does not want her to follow down the same path.

Lavellan folds her hands behind her back and sways a little bit on her feet before finally saying, “I was, am, the first of Clan Lavellan.”

Solas moves his brush in an arcing motion as he questions, “Are you not still?”

Lavellan steps in closer to examine his work and explains, “I am too far away from my clan.” She smiles softly, and Solas catches a glimpse of that smile as he turns to add more paint to his palette. “I love Deshanna, and Deshanna loves me,” she continues. “But she must put the priorities of our clan first. It seems as though I will not be able to return to my clan for a long while yet. Our Second, will most likely be assigned the duties of First in all but name.”

Solas pauses in his painting and glances at Lavellan. She looks wistful, melancholy, and her expression is colored by the thoughts of too many memories. He knows that look well. He carefully asks, “Does that not bother you?”

Her eyes refocus back on him, and she smiles, “No, I understand. The clan always comes first.”

Solas wrinkles his brow a bit as she says that, and Lavellan’s expression turns a little harder. “Disdain us if you wish,” she challenges. “But even you cannot deny the fact that to leave the position of First vacant for a woman who cannot return is foolishness.”

“You are correct,” he admits.

“Besides,” Lavellan says solemnly. “I am Keeper to a much larger clan now.”

“And what clan would that be?” Solas asks, knowing full well the answer.

Lavellan turns her gaze upwards to look at the floors of people above them. The people, bending over books and research, and the ravens that flutter in through the highest windows to deposit their messages with the spymaster. Dorian, throwing several books onto an empty table, and Fiona, discussing something with other apprentices.

“The Inquisition,” she replies in a breathy whisper as she gazes up fondly.

 

* * *

 

 "It's lovely," the Inquisitor says decidedly.

Her brother, M, just keeps on petting the wretched thing's head.

Cassandra and Josephine and Cullen all simultaneously look like they are going to have an aneurysm. Leliana merely looks entertained under that hood of hers.  
  
"You cannot keep it," Cassandra says firmly.

Josephine blanches and grips her clipboard with a renewed grip. "I cannot imagine how I can make this look good for the Inquisition,” she says quietly.

Cullen buries his face in his hands and groans, "I can't believe she actually brought it back."  
  
Lavellan cocks her head to the side and asks, "Why would we not? She is splendid."

M flicks his gaze up to his twin and vaguely gestures to the skeletal beast with his other hand. "Possibly he, possibly it, possibly they. It hasn't told us what it wants to be called yet," he says.

She nods, almost sagely, as she replies, "You're right. I am sorry for not taking your own preference into consideration."

Cullen lets out a soft strangled groan as Lavellan pats the rotting, shambling corpse of a horse gently around the sword stabbed straight up through its skull.  
  
"We still need a name for it though," M muses. "We cannot call it 'it' forever, and we may not be able to wait until it gives us its own name."  
  
Cassandra opens her mouth to snap back something at M, but the sound of Varric's voice interrupts her. "Why is Master Dennet unconscious in front of the stables?" he calls out. "Does that have to do something with that bog unicorn the scouts dragged into Haven this morning?"  
  
"Oh no," Cassandra grumbles as Lavellan’s eyes veritably sparkle. She claps her hands together excitedly as she repeats the phrase, "bog unicorn," under her breath. The bog unicorn nickers agreeably with her, and M nods with approval.  
  
When Varric pops his head up from behind the stable door, Cassandra stomps over and gives him a good, solid glare before leaving the premises. Josephine presses her hand to her forehead and follows Cassandra out. Leliana follows, quietly laughing as she goes. And Cullen? He squats near the ground, face buried in his hands once more, and stays there like that while making a groaning noise before finally shuffling out of the stables.

Varric glances at the Lavellans and asks, "So, did you two convince the others to keep it?"

M raises an eyebrow and asks, "Is my twin not the Herald of Andraste?"

Varric chuckles, "Well, you're certainly using the power to your advantage then. Still, didn't think that Curly and Seeker would have let you. Josie's going to have a fit trying to make this bog unicorn fit the Inquisition."  
  
Lavellan jumps up to sit on top of another low stable door and swings her legs against the wood. With a smile that Varric has soon learned to associate with bad decisions, she says almost too cheerily, "I have already thought of a solution. We can mount an Inquisition banner on the sword."

 

* * *

 

 

“King Alistair,” Lavellan says coldly as she sits in her throne with a rigid back. Her voice echoes in the high, vaulted chamber that is the Inquisition’s main hall. A chilly breeze surges in through the door before someone can close it, and it runs chills down Alistair’s and Leliana’s backs. The repairs on Skyhold are well underway, and the fortress castle was in a much better condition than it was before. Still, this building remains drafty and cold. But Lavellan’s voice is sharper than the chill in the air. It’s the tone that she uses for judgements, Leliana notices. This does not bode well.

Alistair picks up on her frosty tone easily enough and says with a sigh, “Oh dear, I really didn’t make the best impression the first time around, did I?” His crown is haphazardly leaning on his head as if it were a last-minute thought to put it on. Alistair’s hair is as tufted and messy as Leliana remembers it to be during the Blight; it’s not combed back like it usually is for royal affairs.

Leliana pats him on the back and says in a reassuring tone, “No, you didn’t.” Alistair shoots Leliana a reproachful glance, but Leliana only shrugs and smiles that mysterious close-lipped smile of hers.

Alistair sighs once more and faces the Inquisitor. He even does a little wave with his hand as he says, “Hello, Inquisitor. That’s what they call you now, don’t they?” It’s every bit of the bashful, boyish man that Leliana remembers. She didn’t know that it was still there; she expected the weight of Ferelden’s crown to wipe that away as surely as water erodes away at rock.

Inquisitor Lavellan regards him for only a moment before she tilts her head and says, “It is... Strange to hear it. But yes, that is what they call me now.”

Leliana feels sorry for that. Sometimes, she wonders if they are making the girl into a weapon of war. The tone of the Inquisitor’s voice and the way she carries herself is already so different than what Leliana saw at Haven. It’s also markedly different than what Alistair saw at Redcliffe.

Alistair awkwardly chuckles and scratches the back of his neck as he says, “Oh, I relate a lot actually. I was just a Warden, and then, they made me king, and so, here I am.” He coughs before saying sheepishly, “Terribly sorry about the entire mage thing.”

Lavellan blinks owlishly, and for a moment, her facade cracks so that Alistair can see the girl behind the title. Then, it hardens and Alistair takes a breath. “I did...” he trails off.

Leliana arches an eyebrow and prods, “Alistair. Admit it.”

Alistair groans loudly and dramatically before he says, “Oh, hush, Leliana. I can do this. I’m not some kind of child that can’t apologize.” He faces the Inquisitor and with utmost sincerity, he says, “I overreacted. Badly.”

The cracks in the Inquisitor’s expression crack once and for all, and with wide eyes, she hesitantly asks, “Really?” It shows the girl underneath, and Leliana sighs internally with relief. Rationally, she knows that Lavellan remains Lavellan, but a small part still worries about her.

Alistair nods, “Really.”

“Leliana...” he starts off. “Leliana told me of what could’ve happened at Redcliffe. And I came to Skyhold to thank you.” He gives the Inquisitor a sly wink before saying, “Also, my court advisors were pushing me to do some sort of royal entourage intimidation tactic at you. Not sure if that’s what I really want to do, but I figured that it would be a good time to meet up with an old friends and make amends with a possible new friend.” Alistair raises his hands up before Lavellan could open her mouth to speak and continues, “So here I am. Just Alistair. Good old me. From Ferelden. Land of dogs and mud and sometimes good cheese.”

Lavellan breaks out into a small smile, and Leliana can tell that Alistair counts that one as a victory. “No, no,” she says. “I understand your actions and motivations even if I do not agree. If my clan was attacked, I would do everything to avenge and protect them.”

Alistair nods sagely and agrees, “Yes, yeah, that.”

A small giggle bubbles out of Lavellan: high, pealing, and light. “You are not very much like a king,” she admits, cheeks flushing pink as if she was telling a secret.

Leliana smiles and pats Lavellan on the shoulder while saying, “He is still very much the same Warden I met so long ago.” Thankfully so.

Alistair strikes a pose, crossing his arms and lifting his chin and pulling back his shoulders. “Well, I am older,” he says airily. Then, he looks a tad bit introspective as he trails off, “I think I was better looking back then.”

“Alistair,” Leliana says with a deadpan stare. “You had so many holes in your clothes that Wynne had to regularly patch them for you.”

Alistair splays his hand across his chest with mock affront and exclaims, “Leliana! You can’t just expose me like that in front of the Inquisitor!”

Leliana dryly replies, “Alistair, you had so many holes in your clothes that Wynne had to patch them for you.” But she smiles as well. Alistair is still fit and he still has his rosy cheeks, but he’s a tad bit less trim after too many years of royal duties and fine cheeses. He’s changed, and so has she.

Alistair flushes pink and opens his mouth to retort something equally embarrassing back, but Lavellan cuts him off by asking rather innocently, “Leliana, did you not nail Josephine’s smalls to the chantry board once?”

Alistair’s jaw falls open as he says slowly, “No. Way.”

Leliana sniffs, “It was a scout. It was also very entertaining. It was her pretty set.”

Alistair breaks and bubbles into a series of giggles and snorts.

Lavellan continues, “We have lots of fun here. Sera is also very fun.” She pauses and taps her chin as she thinks. “Do you still get to have fun as a king?” she asks, eyes wide and curious.

“Pshh,” Alistair snorts as he waves his hands dismissively. “It’s all formality and boring diplomacy. It’s not like I do much anyhow.”

Leliana places a hand on Alistair’s shoulder and says softly, “Don’t discredit yourself, Alistair. You have turned out to be a fine king.” Silence settles across the room until even Leliana feels slightly discomfited by it. Then, Leliana breathes out, “She would have been proud of you.” And she’s utterly sincere when she says that; the Warden _would_ have been proud of him if she could see him now.

Alistair’s expression cracks and reveals a wounded, vulnerable one underneath his attempt at regal composure. However, he quickly shakes himself out of it and says, “I’m glad that I’ve managed to meet both your and her standards.” The blithe smile returns to his face, and it is a valiant attempt at regaining the levity of the situation, but the smile never fully reaches his eyes.

“I do not know how to meet standards as well,” Lavellan offers in an attempt to salvage the pieces of the situation. The flittering look in her eyes clearly shows her discomfort, but Leliana doesn’t know if Lavellan really does understand what Leliana just implicated. But more importantly, Leliana examines Alistair more closely. _Impressive_ , Leliana thinks. _He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve so obviously anymore._

Lavellan’s eyes flash with a bolt of inspiration and she suddenly asks, “Is Ferelden truly so rainy and muddy all the time?” She leans in closer to Alistair and even hops off her throne to approach him closer. “Do you all have dogs?” she presses. “I heard that the Hero of Ferelden had a dog. The Champion of Kirkwall also had a dog.” She pauses and throws a wistful glance at Leliana while pointedly saying, “I do not have a dog.” Still, a small, soft smile is on her face and gives her expression a hopeful lilt to it.

“Oh!” Alistair exclaims, grateful at a chance for amends. “Winter’s the mud season, but it’s not all bad. Not bad at all. And dogs are the best animal! The best friend that man could ever have!” He pauses and gives Lavellan an appraising look before saying, “I don’t understand why we get slandered for it so often. I love dogs, they’re loyal friends. We have some expecting mabari mothers in the royal kennels. You could come over for a visit and see the pups when they’re born, Inquisitor.”

“Lavellan,” she replies firmly. Alistair blinks quizzically, and she repeats, “Lavellan. I am part of Clan Lavellan, First to the Clan. I would prefer it if you would call me by my name instead of Inquisitor.”

Alistair breaks out into a grin and replies easily, “Then it’s Alistair for you. You already know all the title stuff.”

Lavellan giggles slightly, “Alright, Alistair.”

Alistair rubs his hands together and says with a raise of his eyebrows, “So, you said that you didn’t have a dog yet?”

Leliana interrupts him by saying sharply, “Oh, don’t give her ideas, Alistair. She’s already hauled a dead horse body home and slapped the Inquisition banner on it.”

Alistair looks taken aback and glances back at Lavellan for confirmation. Lavellan shrugs and says defensively, “It is a bog unicorn, not a dead horse body. You will hurt its feelings if you call it a dead horse body. And it is cute. And I, for one, would much rather talk about mabari pups.”

 

* * *

 

 Lavellan is thoroughly enjoying this day in the Hinterlands.

So far today, they have not run into a single bear. So, she prances and skips with only her usual leg wrappings on her feet and calves, feeling as if she was young and in her clan again. Blackwall trails after her, making sure that any bandits aren’t anywhere near her, and the Iron Bull and Solas are busy in a discussion that she thinks involves nugs and the Qun. She doesn’t know how they went from nugs to the Qun, but she doesn’t want to know how.

Then, she feels it in her feet. A vibration that trembles the earth.

It’s a small sensation. Blackwall and the Iron Bull look like they haven’t even noticed it, but Solas with his leg wrappings and sensitive feet like hers knows. He glances at her, quick and darting, and almost immediately, the Iron Bull goes on alert after that. Then, Blackwall stops, and the entire group falls silent. They can only hear the wind whistling through the grasses, but the faint scent of brimstone flickers through the air.

A wide grin splits the Iron Bull’s face. “My fire-breathing soulmate,” he breathes out before rushing headlong towards the scent. Blackwall groans but draws his blade.

“You cannot go rushing into a dragon fight!” Lavellan calls out firmly. The Iron Bull doesn’t even slow down. “I will tell Lady Vivienne of this!” Lavellan tries. The Iron Bull grinds to a halt before glancing back at them.

Lavellan sighs and unslings her staff from her back as does Solas. “You don’t even know if it’s a dragon,” she says.

The Iron Bull shakes his head and looks at her pleadingly, “Just a look, Boss, just a look. We don’t even have to smash its skull or anything. Just a look.”

Solas sighs, “I do not think that a dragon would be amenable to ‘just a look’ when considering the amount of armor and weaponry that we currently have.”

Blackwall frowns, “I don’t think I could haul your limp bodies out of a dragon fight. Lavellan’s, sure, maybe Solas, but not you. Definitely not you.”

The Iron Bull gives her another sad look with wide eyes. Lavellan doesn’t know how this qunari, this mercenary that towers over her like nothing with _giant horns_ to boot, can pull off such a weak, watery, puppy-eyed look.

She heaves out a heavy breath before readying her staff. “Just a look,” she firmly repeats. “I do not want to fight a dragon _ever._ ” The Iron Bull pumps his fist in the air before sprinting towards the vibrations and brimstone scent which grows stronger with each passing minute.

Blackwall huffs, “He will not settle for ‘just a look.’”

“He will not,” Solas agrees.

Lavellan summons magic to her fingertips, and her aura tenses, ready to fire a spell.

“I know. I do not know why I agreed either.”

 

* * *

 

 “You did _what?!”_

Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose and sucks in a deep, well-needed breath. Tries to remember why she tolerates this miserably happy elf. _She closed the Breach and survived the destruction at Haven,_ she reminds herself. _You love her very much because she is someone with a good heart._

But a good heart only goes so far.

Lavellan glances up at the Iron Bull and cradles her baby dragon closer. “Her name is Isera. It is elvhen for fire dream,” she insists. The baby dragon lifts her scaled head up and puffs out an excited squeak at the sound of her name.

“Or Biscuit,” Bull supplies. “That’s what her nickname is. Because, you know, she likes biscuits.”

“Yes,” Lavellan says solemnly. “Or Biscuit. Isera likes biscuits.”

At the sound of the word, the baby dragon nudges Lavellan’s shoulder insistently. When Lavellan does not produce a biscuit for it, it whines and snorts out a flicker of flame. Lavellan wraps her hand in magical fire as she pushes Biscuit back down in its previous position. “Later,” she soothes. “Later, we will have biscuits. Right now, you are meeting my friend, Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast.”

Cassandra can feel the beginnings of a pounding headache at the back of her head, and the mention of her full name only exacerbates it. Blackwall and Solas shuffle behind the Iron Bull, and Lavellan remains standing in front of her with a full-on pout. “You do know that the Pentaghasts are a family of dragon slayers,” she points out. Lavellan gasps and hurries to cover the dragonling’s ears. “I’ve killed dragons before. And Bull _likes_ killing dragons,” Cassandra says flatly.

“Well, that’s the reason why we have her,” Bull sheepishly says. “I killed its mother and its siblings, and then, it got attached to Lavellan. Maybe because she was covered in her mother’s scales or something like that?”

“Terrible,” Lavellan admonishes. “I told you that we should not have touched its mother, but you ran off.”

“Like the last time,” Cassandra grits out. “After the last dragon we killed, I explicitly told you that we weren’t going to go dragon-killing _again.”_

Iron Bull pouts at her with puppy eyes and all. He must have learned it from Lavellan, but it doesn’t fit him as well as it does her. Lavellan catches Cassandra glaring at Bull and hurries to mimic the same sad expression. “Please, _lethallan,_ this is not dragon-killing. It is the very opposite! Please, just let us keep Biscuit,” she pleads. “Biscuit is very nice and very friendly.” She extends the dragonling out to her, and the dragonling peers at Cassandra. When Cassandra frowns at it, the dragonling seems to let out a soft trill before trying to flap over to her. “See?” Lavellan tries. “Biscuit likes you!”

Lavellan lets go of the dragonling — or _Biscuit_ , as they call it now — and it shakily flaps its way through the air until it collides into Cassandra’s chest. The impact is harder than she expects it to be, and her arms automatically go up to catch it. She thoroughly blames Lavellan who throws herself into Cassandra’s arms more than necessary. Biscuit looks up at her with wide eyes, and Cassandra despairs.

“Fine,” she grudgingly concedes as Biscuit nestles in Cassandra’s arms and promptly falls asleep.

Lavellan and the Iron Bull whoop and cheer for the entirety of the way back to the main hall. Cassandra has no idea how they are going to justify the new addition to the Inquisition to the likes of Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana. The bog unicorn was one situation. This is another thing entirely.

But for now, Cassandra looks down at the sleeping dragon in her arms and supposes that this is what her life is like now.

 

* * *

 

 "Your arrows," Varric says with an eyebrow raised.

"What of them?" M evenly replies as he notches another one. He pulls back the bowstring and aims, true as Andruil's sight, lets go, and watches as another templar falls. Bianca's string twangs with an almost mechanical sound that makes M cringe.  
  
That is not a bow. That is an unholy hybrid of wood and metal that unleashes death faster than he would ever expect.  
  
"They always hit perfectly," Varric says conversationally as he reloads Bianca. It makes a soft mechanical click response, and he raises it up to fire again. "Got any trick to that?"  
  
_Clever, clever durgen'len,_ M thinks. And here he thought that the children of the stone were immune and blind to magics and mana of the Fade. It's true; he whispers a bit of mana into each and every arrow that he shoots. He's not a mage like his twin, but a trace of magic still lives in his blood. He certainly isn't going to admit it though. A secret given away so easily like that would shame the god of secrets marked on his brow.  
  
“Nothing more than aim,” he says evenly. “Why? Jealous?”

Varric chortles, “Jealous? Oh no, not when I’ve got Bianca.” He pats his crossbow lovingly, and frankly, M can understand the amount of love one can have for an object. In his clan, an object was made by hand and used until it wore out. And then, it would either be fixed or repurposed into something new, all done by hand. He made his own bow too. Searched and cut down the perfect tree. Cut and shaped and scraped it down to the perfect size. Carried around a leather grip for months before using it in order to get the same mark of his hands onto the tough leather. He loves his bow too.  
Not the one that he currently uses, no. Not that one. That one was one taken from a body of a dead man with dead fingerprints on the grip and wood instead.  
  
M shrugs, “I would treasure a bow like that too. Perhaps not a crossbow though.” Varric gives him a careful look. It is the look of one who is too used to observing. Pity for him; M is one too used to observing as well.

“Then would you rather have a bow like Dalish’s?” Varric says with a chuckle. He fires off another bolt, and M blinks. Dalish is a mage, and her “bow” is nothing more than a staff. But still.... How could Varric have known?”

He mouths a blessing under his breath as he nocks another arrow. It flies straight and true, faster and keener than it should.  
  
“Perhaps,” he decides to say instead. “Perhaps.”  
  
He will have to keep a more careful eye on those he did not expect. After all, his twin is more busy with the matters of the outside world. He will take care of the matters of the inside world for her.

 

* * *

 

 “Inquisitor,” the scout huffs out.

Lavellan rises from her little spot and turns to face him before asking, “Yes? Is there something wrong?”

The scout is hunched over, trying to regain his breath by sucking in huge gulps of air. He straightens  and then salutes as he says, “The Nevarran entourage of diplomats are here, but Skyhold’s gates are currently locked up. The ambassador cannot find the official keys, and she’s in… A bit of a flurry.”

Lavellan only sighs and squats back down to examine her herbs again. “I don’t have them,” she says simply. “And I don’t know why everybody thinks I do.”

The scout sputters, “Excuse me, your Worship?”

The Inquisitor glances back up at him and explains, “Cassandra has both the formal key and the spare formal key for Skyhold’s front gates.”

The scout gapes at her before shakily asking, “What if Lady Cassandra is not available? Or dead? How would we be able to get inside?”

Inquisitor Lavellan sets down her small knife down before staring baldly at the scout.

“If Cassandra was dead, then we would have been killed long before that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lavellan traces words and symbols on Cassandra’s skin sometimes. At times, Cassandra can feel them when Lavellan smoothes over Cassandra’s skin with soft healing magic. At other times, it’s when Lavellan falls asleep beside her, arm thrown over Cassandra’s body, and sleepily taps out another rhythm of unknown meaning on Cassandra’s shoulder.

At first, Cassandra thinks that Lavellan is tracing the numerous scars that lie on her skin. Raised and puckered skin where blades and claws and rocks once skidded past and spilled her red blood across the dirt and dust of the earth. That’s the initial reason why she curls away from Lavellan. She’s never been ashamed of her scars, but for some reason, she’s embarrassed to show them to Lavellan. Rationally, she knows that the scars came with the job. They are marks of the life she’s lived, and Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast has not lived a soft life. But it is _Lavellan_ , her Herald, and she cannot bear to show her how much she’s been marked and scarred and permanently damaged by the life she’s lived.

However, Lavellan insistently gets closer and closer as the days and nights drip by. And reluctantly, slowly, timidly, Cassandra allows her more access. She rationalizes it by saying that this is what makes Lavellan comfortable. This is better than having Lavellan bound across the wilderness, headfirst into any sign of danger that might cross their path. Also, Lavellan cannot be a stranger to scars. She is Dalish; she should know.

But Lavellan’s touch strays past the lines that mark Cassandra’s body. She still traces out the same pattern over and over again whether Cassandra is in bed or sitting by the campfire or waiting for the next mission in Haven. Cassandra can’t make any sense of it. She lets Lavellan stay though, and after Haven’s destruction, she cannot bear to send Lavellan too far out of her sight. So, Lavellan stays.

Cassandra’s curiosity is alight though. She cannot understand it, and she doesn’t like not understanding things. The sensations of the motions on her skin are familiar patterns to her now, and she takes them to Solas. After all, he out of all people should know what they mean.

Solas welcomes her, sits her down on a chair opposite his desk, and sets down a piece of paper in front of her. “Go on,” he says after he hands her one of his graphite pencils. “Show me what you want me to translate.”

The symbols that first come to mind are the ones that she draws first. Solas cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of it and instantly says, “Protector. Depending on the context, you could also use it to mean ‘soldier.’ The second one means ‘explorer.’ But again, I believe you can twist it to mean your title, Seeker.”

Cassandra moves on to the next set of symbols, and now, Solas gets up and moves behind her to read over her shoulder. “Talented one,” he translates next. “Strong. Or perhaps, passionate. Lavellan’s style of writing is… Markedly different than the one I know. Hers is conjugated differently and depends on different kinds of contexts. Also, I believe you are simply drawing some of these wrong. But the essence of the message is the same. It is clear that she… For lack of a better term, appreciates your presence and admires your, ah, qualities.”

“Oh,” Cassandra says. She pauses in the middle of writing and peers at her drawings. Alright, she will admit that these drawings are terrible. They’re shaky and look more like children’s scribbles. Cassandra is genuinely and honestly surprised that Solas can even figure out a meaning from the set of drawings she has. She still has one more set of symbols though. She draws them out on the last blank corner of the paper and sets the pencil down before she turns around and waits for Solas’s answer.

 _“Ar lath ma,”_ Solas slowly says after he reads the last set of symbols. He raises his gaze to examine Cassandra, and she furrows her brows in confusion. He does not offer a translation in Common and remains silent. Thinking. Almost pensive, she thinks. Finally, he reaches over to tap the set of letters and says, “Untranslatable. I believe you should ask Lavellan to explain the meaning better. That will make the most sense, I think.”

Cassandra sighs. Disappointing. She doubts Lavellan will tell her. Lavellan delights in speaking elvhen and refusing to translate it. Cassandra thinks she gets a kick out of confusing people. But Cassandra still got more than what she expected in terms of translations from Solas. “Thank you, Solas,” she says with a broad, genuine smile as she gets ready to leave.

Solas’s expression is unreadable, but he offers her a small smile. “I am glad that I could offer some help,” he murmurs as he walks her to the door. Cassandra nods at him before she exits the tower.

_Ar lath ma._

She wonders what it could mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
>  **ar lath ma** \- i love you
> 
> now, i will entirely admit that i cut most of these scenes because 1. they were not directly related to the cassandra/lavellan romance theme i was going for. also, some of these scenes are thoughts that i got after i posted the chapter which is,,,,, unfortunate. but yeah! there is the next batch of lil scenes. hope you liked them + leave a comment with your thoughts <3 i always love hearing what y'all have to say!!


	3. the place where the sky was held back

Krem arrives in Haven with his teeth chattering and his coat tightly wrapped around his body. He packed a coat that was better for the coast: Rivaini cotton and Antivan leather all sewn together in layers for a waterproof coat. The mud of Ferelden and the snows of Haven don’t mesh well with it. Dalish wool or treated weave from Highever would fare better in this kind of weather along with thicker leather boots from druffalo or bearskin. He can knit together a scarf out of wool or sew himself a new shirt out of some thicker fabric if need be. Well, that’s only in the case that he and the rest of the Chargers actually get employed by the Inquisition. These kinds of thoughts are the only ones that circulate in Krem’s head as he trudges up the path to the town.

In the distance, he can see a figure bent over a patch of snow, trying to chip away from a rock. When he steps closer, his boots crunch the snow with a sound loud enough to startle the figure into looking up. Krem squints his eyes and he can see the symbol of the Inquisition emblazoned across her thin cuirass. The coat she’s wearing covers up part of the symbol, but he recognizes the hairy eye. That was the reason why he first noticed the Inquisition: the terrible symbol tacked up onto one of the logs on the Storm Coast.

Now that he’s closer, he sees that she’s Dalish. Well, having a Dalish elf as a Herald of Andraste would certainly attract more Dalish elves to the job. Krem supposes that it’s reasonable enough and offers up a hesitant wave and smile. The elf’s face breaks into a wide, open grin, and she dusts her hands off on her pants before she gets up to wave excitedly back. Krem can’t help but smile even wider; it’s been such a long time since someone else outside the Chargers was that eager to see him. It’s just the line of work he’s in, nothing more, nothing less, but it’s _nice._

 _“Andaran atish’an,”_ she calls out. “Are you looking for something? What is your name?”

Krem peers at her closer, and she glances down at her still-dirty hands. She vainly tries to dust her hands off on her breeches, but that only makes the ore dust from her hands transfer in long, chalky streaks onto her thighs. He tries to stifle a laugh and says, “Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi of the Bull’s Chargers, ma’am, but you can just call me Krem. I was looking for the Inquisition’s ambassador to pitch a job opening.”

“Oh,” she says, emphasizing the sound into a wide, long O. “Are you looking for a job, Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi?”

“Yes,” he nods. “And hopefully for the rest of my group as well. And you can just call me Krem.”

The elf blinks and twists her fingers together before she asks, “Really, Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi? Are you sure it would be alright? Is that not rude?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Go ahead, no big deal,” he says with a shrug. He’s not sure what the big focus is on titles. Maybe the Inquisition is strict with proper titles? If so, that’s going to be a big pain in the ass.

 _“Ma serannas,_ Krem,” the elf says, testing his nickname out. She smiles to herself and tries to mouth out the sound of his nickname again but silently. It’s honestly rather endearing, and Krem finds himself liking this Inquisition scout more than he should. The elf glances back up at him and says, “Ambassador Josephine Cherette Montilyet is likely still in her office. I can take you there if you want.”

“Sure,” Krem says. He shoves his hands in his pockets and prepares to follow after the elf when he feels paper in his pockets. Oops. He coughs to get the elf’s attention and fishes the papers out of his pockets. He holds them up and says, “I’ve got identification papers if you want them. For extra security and clearance and all that.”

She accepts the papers, but she looks over the document with a disinterested, cursory glance. Her eyes slide over the paper to the point where Krem realizes that she can’t fully read. But then, her gaze hones in on one section before she looks up and narrows her eyes at Krem. Her eyes seem like they’re piercing right through him and examining every part of him for her own discretion, but then, they soften and return to her easy smile.

“All good. I will now take you to the ambassador if that is alright with you,” she says as she tucks the papers carefully away into her own pockets. Somehow, she manages to make sure none of the dust and dirt from her hands transfers over to the paper.

She bends down and gathers up her tools into a soft leather pouch. It looks dark and worn buttery-smooth, likely from years of use, but Krem guesses that it must have originally been some sort of rabbit hide. The texture and the thickness of the leather seems familiar enough, and from his experience, only leather from rabbit skin ages that color. Nug skin takes on more of a pinkish brown while bearskin tends to become a deeper brown. Also, he doubts that a Dalish elf would be able to hunt down animals with more rare skins and hides. She gathers up the ores she’s collected into a different pouch and taps her chisel into the rock one last time. Krem sees her mouth out something, but he can’t tell what she’s saying from the shape of her lips or the sound. Must be some sort of blessing or prayer in elvhen; Dalish sometimes does a similar thing before and after battle.

As she busily tidies up her work, Krem shifts and feels distinctly awkward by the silence. “Uh,” he finally says. “I didn’t really catch your name.”

“I did not give it to you,” she responds simply.

“Oh,” Krem says, absolutely dumbfounded. He flushes a pale pink out of embarrassment, but he’s saved from having to reply when the elf giggles.

It’s a light, tinkling sound, and she glances up at him with a cheeky smile. “If it would make you more comfortable, you may call me L,” she offers. “I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable with that answer if that makes you feel better.”

Krem tests out the name and draws it out into a long _ell_ sound. “Nice to meet you, L,” he says with a grin.

“It is nice to meet you too, Lieuten— Krem,” L says, stumbling over his title in the middle of it. She presses her lips thinly together and tries, “Krem. Krem. Krem. It is a very nice nickname. I like it.”

Krem can’t help but laugh at the expression she makes as she whispers his name over and over again under her breath. They set off towards Haven, and Krem automatically reaches for at least one shred of conversation. “How’d you make it to Haven?” he chooses to say.

L reties the knot on her bag of ores as she explains, “My clan wished to know more about the plans the Chantry was making for the conflict between mages and templars. Although we are not Andrastian, the actions of some have great consequences for many.” Krem glances at L, startled at the sudden serious tone. Her expression is solemn, but when she catches him looking, she evens her expression out and brings the smile back.  “Also, I enjoy adventures,” she adds. “Seeing new things is very, very interesting. And fun! I enjoy it, and my job in the Inquisition lets me travel to many new places.”

“Oh, what’s your job?” Krem asks next. It might be helpful to know what kind of job scouts do to gauge what the Chargers’ role in the Inquisition would most likely be. He could also adjust his job pitch for the Chargers if need be.

“I help people,” L responds in a matter-of-fact tone. The way she says it makes it seem like the answer is obvious. “The job is very simple, and that is all there is to it. But sometimes, it takes different forms like finding resources, scouting around, and fixing some problems. Also, Ambassador Josephine Cherette Montilyet and Sister Nightingale like to make my job sound more complicated than it is by adding too many words to the description.” She wrinkles her nose when she mentions the complication, but she looks over to Krem and asks, “What do you plan to do?”

“Well, the Bull’s Chargers is a mercenary group, and we just take on jobs for hire. We’ve taken on giant spiders, had a bad run-in with a couple giants, guarded a few caravans, things like that,” Krem says. “I assume we’d take on a similar role in the Inquisition if we manage to secure the job.” He personally hopes that they don’t have to take on jobs involving giants again though, but he keeps that thought to himself.

They move on in silence as L considers Krem’s statement. After they ascend the hill, she asks, “And is your captain not here to make the deal?”

“No, he’s still back with the rest of the group to keep them organized and in one place. I’m more of the messenger,” Krem says. He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck and wonders if that’ll make him look strange to the ambassador or the Herald.

“Were you the one to come up with the idea?” L asks.

Krem stops in his tracks and sputters, “Wh- How did you know?”

L gives him a beatific smile and explains, “You are the one here instead of the captain. If the captain — this _Bull_ , I think — wanted the job badly enough, then he would be the one here in Haven, walking to the ambassador’s office, talking with me.” She shrugs and says, “If he thinks staying back is more important and more worth his time, then it is likely that he would send someone that cares more about the job than he does. If he did not, then the chances of that person traveling more slowly, being more careless especially with the job pitch, and other tasks are much higher. Am I not correct?”

L doesn’t miss a single beat, and she strides onward into Haven with the tails of her scout’s coat fluttering behind her. Krem speeds his steps up as he says, “N-no, you’re right. You’re right. How did you know so quickly though?”

L glances back at him and says, “If you think about it enough, I think it would be reasonable to assume that.” Her tone makes it seem like it’s the most obvious fact in the world, and Krem grimaces. Her gaze slides to his left, and a smile grows on her face again. “Oh, hello, Varric!” she calls out.

Krem whirls around to see a short dwarf. “Hey there, birdie, who’ve you got there?” he says as he jerks his thumb over to Krem. There is only one Varric that Krem knows of, and that’s the famous author, Varric Tethras.

L pats Krem’s shoulder and says, “This is Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi of the Bull’s Chargers. I am taking him to the ambassador’s office.”

“Krem is fine,” he cuts in. “Krem is super duper fine.”

Varric gives him a once-over before saying, “Ooh, okay, sounds good to me. My name’s Varric. And hey, after you do that, stop by the tavern for a bit. We’ve found something that you might like.”

L nods, “I will, Master Varric Tethras of the — “

Yep, that’s _the_ Varric Tethras. Grim’s going to _kill_ Krem if he doesn’t get the author’s signature at the very least. Grim’s favorite novels were all written by Varric, and Krem wonders how he’s going to tell Grim about this.

Varric clicks his tongue with disapproval and warns, “Birdie, what did I say about the names?”

“Of course, Varric,” L says with an embarrassed laugh.

“There we go,” Varric nods. He gives a short wave to both of them and says, “See you later then. Nice to meet you, Krem.” He walks off towards a different part of Haven, and Krem wheels around with too many questions to ask L.

L smiles, “That was Master Varric Tethras of Kirkwall. He is a very nice person. He also writes good books apparently.”

“Apparently? He’s one of the most famous authors in Thedas!” Krem sputters.

L waves him off to say, “Mmm, yes, yes, he writes books. But he is also a good storyteller, a good trap-maker, a good cocktail maker, and a good person. I think that is more important than the fact that he writes books. He is a good friend, and that goodness does not often show up clearly enough in his books for my liking.”

“Which of his books have you read?” Krem wonders. Perhaps his initial judgement on her reading abilities were wrong.

L wrinkles her nose and answers, “None of them, but I do have another friend who can recite nearly all of the books by memory. She informed me that there was very little about Varric himself in the books which I think is a shame.”

“Oh, okay then,” Krem says, absolutely dumbfounded. He really doesn’t know what to make of L. Were all Dalish elves like this?

Thankfully, the Chantry isn’t far from here now. L leads the way while waving and calling out various greetings to nearly everyone that passes by. A foot soldier, another scout, even a Chantry sister. _At least she’s friendly,_ Krem muses. _Well-liked. I can see why._ There’s just something endearing about her despite the few oddities here and there.

Once they enter the Chantry, L makes a beeline towards a specific door. She swings it wide open and calls out, “Hello, Ambassador Josephine Cherette Montilyet! I have a visitor for you.”

Krem peers over L’s shoulder — which isn’t hard to do since she’s short — and sees the ambassador, decked out in gold satin. She jumps and drops her tablet on her desk as she cries out, “Oh! Oh, Lavellan, you startled me!”

 _“Ir abelas,_ Ambassador Josephine Chere—”

The ambassador lifts a hand to stop her and sternly says, “Lavellan, if I am going to call you Lavellan instead of Herald or your Worship, then you must call me Josephine.” She puts her hands in her pockets and fishes out a couple of chestnuts and candies. “Also, I have these for you.”

“Oh!” L exclaims. She bounces over to receive them carefully from the ambassador’s outstretched hands and says, “Alright, Josephine, _ma serannas_ and I will do my best to remember.” She glances back and asks, “Krem, would you like a candy?”

He, in turn, gapes at her with an open mouth. _Lavellan?!_ Was this little Dalish elf really the… “You… _You’re_ the Herald?!” he sputters.

Lavellan makes a face and says, “Oh. I do not like that title. Please do not call me Herald. L or Lavellan is fine, whichever you prefer.” She hops up to sit on Josephine’s desk and tucks the candies in another pouch at her belt. Then, she cups the chestnuts in her hands and starts roasting them with some sparks of fire magic that crackle up from her palms. Krem can’t stop staring at her, and Lavellan says, “But Josephine, Krem is here to negotiate a job offer. Here are the papers he gave me.”

The ambassador exchanges a look with Lavellan before she says, “Excellent. Thank you for your help, Lavellan.”

“Of course,” Lavellan says. She lifts one chestnut up to the air to examine it. Satisfied with what she sees, she cracks it open with a concentrated blast of magic from her index finger. “Please let me know if you need any more assistance with anything else,” she says before she pops the chestnut in her mouth.

Ambassador Montilyet scans over her desk and picks up a bundle of letters. “Oh, if you could sort those letters for me, it would be wonderful,” she says.

Lavellan squints at the pile and asks, “By shape or by quality?”

“Quality, please.”

“Alright,” Lavellan says. With a nod of her head, the letters float up and follow Lavellan as she walks over to the corner. She deposits her chestnuts carefully in a plate that’s already on a small side table. Then, she takes the letters in hand and starts sorting them into different piles. From what Krem can tell, she’s sorting them by the thickness of the paper, the quality and intricacy of the wax seal, and even the scent of some of them. Lavellan picks up one heavy, thick envelope with gilded edges and takes a small sniff. She wrinkles her nose and tosses it derisively to the side.

Ambassador Montilyet clears her throat, and Krem jumps. “Well, Lieutenant, I believe you had something to tell me in regards to the Inquisition?” she asks as she turns her full attention on Krem.

Krem tries to collect his composure and settle himself with the fact that L is the _Herald of Andraste._ However, his job — and his friends’ jobs — rely on him and this job pitch. “Ah yes, milady,” he says before he launches into his speech.

 

* * *

 

 _Slavering jaws, monstrous claws, pride, hot and heavy, clawing into his chest and digging into his skin, and them up ahead._ Garas quenathra? _they ask, legions of the marked and those who come to him. He whispers,_ Ar lasa mala revas. _And that same demon monster spirit twisted: regrettable mistake — pride —  bears down on him and —_

  
Solas jolts awake with sweat beading his brow, and when he feels hands touching him, he recoils and magic skitters across his skin instinctively.

"It is just me," Lavellan says as she helps him sit up on the bed. "Do not worry. I am trying to help you, not kill you." Her magic answers back in return, quieting the sparks and neutralizing his skin.

He blinks at her, and his eyes have to adjust to the sudden morning light streaming through the now-open window. He's in a bed that isn't his own, but it's still clean. He glances to the nightstand next to the bed and sees a tray of steaming food.

Then, he coughs. A loud, long, rattling cough that shakes his ribcage. Lavellan tuts, "Sickness after heavy wounds. It always hits you harder if you are weaker than you should be."

Solas suddenly leans forward and asks urgently, "Inquisitor, how are you?"

Lavellan glances down at her arms and displays the bandages running up and down her arms. She shrugs and settles the blankets around him. "I am fine. Madame Vivienne and Cassandra made sure that I was completely healed before I was allowed to help you.”  
  
Solas slumps back into his pillows and blanket with a sigh. They had run into an encampment of Venatori and then went immediately to the Fallow Mire where they had all caught a severe case of the flu. To make matters worse, they had been ambushed on the way back to Skyhold. Even Cole (who shouldn't technically be sick) was hidden away in some secluded corner of Skyhold with a stuffy nose. But Lavellan had sustained several arrows to the back and shoulder as well as a heavy slash wound on her abdomen and scratches on her arms. Solas had to carry her on his back with a twisted ankle and wrist while Cole fended off the stragglers.  
  
All in all, it wasn't an exactly good outcome, but the Inquisitor seems unperturbed by it all. She settles the tray on his lap and thrusts the steaming mug towards him.  
  
"Drink."

He can already scent the aroma of tea and elfroot in the concoction, and his face automatically grimaces.

"It is one of my clan’s special blends of tea," Lavellan says. "I have taken care of a brother too often to know what that look means. You can and will drink your tea. It is good for your throat."

Solas scowls and reluctantly picks up the cup under her watchful gaze, and he takes the tiniest of sips. Lavellan glares at him a little bit until he takes more and more sips. Then, she relaxes and sits down next to him.

She sits like an elf from _his_ day, feet set apart just enough for support, her head tilted forward, and her ears pointing straight back. But more than her posture, the way her mana settles around her makes her seem almost anachronistic. She wears her magic like the elves from the old days: openly and easily, draped across her shoulders as if it were simply a regular part of her like a breath of air in her lungs. Well, he supposes that it _is_ a regular part of her, but other mages hold their mana tight and close to their bodies. She keeps it easily around her, and her mana ebbs and flows from her skin like a great ocean or a shoreless sea. Her elbows are on her knees and her hands are up to support her face, and from that angle, Solas can see the bloody bandage on her shoulder and the crisp, herbal tang of the many poultices on both their bodies.

Lavellan arches an eyebrow and gives him a quizzical look. "Copper for your thoughts?" she asks.

Solas shakes his head. No, he cannot let her know, he cannot let himself tell all of it. "I was merely thinking about how you continually surprise me," he says instead. It is not a lie. She does.

Lavellan laughs bitterly, "Is this when you tell me that I am not like the rest of my Dalish brothers and sisters?"

That statement stings Solas, and although he knows that she’s inherently true, he tries to amend his statement. "No," he counters. "The way you handled our enemies in the Fallow Mire was impressive. Evading both blade and disease was a formidable feat, and you survived."  
  
Her gaze softens and she smiles wryly, _“Ma serannas._ I did not avoid every single blade and arrow though.” She gestures to her bandages with a wry smile. “But I think that is a benefit of the Dalish lifestyle. Disease is common every winter, and your body becomes harder and healthier in response. But you did quite well yourself. I heard from Cole that you dragged me from the battlefield with a broken wrist and a twisted ankle.”

Solas cracks a smile at that and then sets his mug down. "We were all young once," he says. "And I learned a few tricks in my day—"

He cuts off that statement too quickly. He knows. He remembers as well.

 _Legions of the marked and pride, hot and heavy on his chest —_  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
Lavellan’s voice breaks him out of his memories and out of the remnants of his dreams. He looks up wearily and says, "I am fine."  She doesn't look convinced but she turns and sets the tray on his lap. A slice of warm bread, a bowl of hearty stew, and a small, misshapen frilly cake.

Lavellan flushes. "I remember you liked these when we were in Val Royeaux. I snuck out with Cole’s help and tried to make them. But… I do not know how to make them. Please do not tell Cassandra. She will be very unhappy if she finds out that I snuck out,” she tells him with a blunt kind of honesty that he appreciates. It's a horrible-looking frilly cake, with odd lumps on the side and frosting that looks like it's been applied with brute force, but Solas reaches over to lay his hand on top of Lavellan’s.  
  
"Thank you, Lavellan."  
  
The heaviness on his chest seems to lighten, and he pops the frilly cake in his mouth. It still tastes delicious despite its shape, and he tells her so. Lavellan breaks into a bright smile, and she stands up from the chair.

"I will leave you to your breakfast then," she says. "I am sure you don't want me to disturb you while you're eating. There are more cakes in the kitchen, but I will try to make better ones next time. I am now going to try and sneak back while Cassandra is still asleep. If she asks you where I have been, you have no idea." The way her eye twinkles when she says that reminds him of Josephine when she seals another alliance, but he can't deny that he’s perfectly willing to go along with her makeshift plan.

The door shuts behind her and he's left with his food and a thought. If this elf, this Inquisitor, this _Lavellan,_ is so real and living like this, then aren't the rest of them? And what does that implicate?

 

* * *

 

For once, Cullen finishes all of his reports by twilight. He leans back in his chair and stares at the pile of finished papers on his desk with a small sense of satisfaction. Then, his gut turns as he realizes that he has the rest of the evening to himself. Too much silence allows him to think too much.

Then, the door to his office slams open, and Cullen jumps to his feet, automatically reaching for his sword propped up next to his desk. It’s a scout with her hat askew and her eyes wild. “What is it?” he barks. The scout stands at attention, her shaking hand going up to salute position. She swallows before saying urgently, “They’re throwing the Inquisitor around, Commander!”

“Who?” Cullen asks, striding up towards the scout. “What?”

The scout takes a deep breath before she says with a tone of utter dread, “ _The Bull’s Chargers._ ”

Cullen blinks at the scout, hand still clenching his sword, and he loosens his grip as he mutters, “Maker’s _breath_ , what are they doing now, and _where_ are they?” The scout fidgets as she says, “I-in the training ring, Commander.”

Cullen nods briefly to the scout, and she takes the opportunity to scramble away. Cullen looks at his pile of finished reports with a resigned look and wonders if the Inquisition will ever settle down enough for him to have a peaceful evening. Then again, peaceful evenings always turned out to be worst for his roving thoughts. Still. He just wanted one moment to take in a nice, long relaxing breath and entertain the thought of having free time.

He huffs out a short “damn” before he shoulders his furred cloak on and sprints out the door.

And sure enough, when he arrives at the training ring, the Iron Bull and his Chargers are tossing the Herald around as if she weighs nothing more than a light ball. They’ve got wooden training weapons and are yelling at each to “pass the ball.” Bull is doing most of the throwing, and a few of the Chargers are working together to catch Inquisitor Lavellan and throw her back. It appears as though they’re playing some sort of unfathomable game, and Cullen gapes at the scene.

M and Dorian are draped over the wooden posts lining the ring, watching the game lazily. They glance up at Cullen and his flushed cheeks from running and his open mouth with a degree of amusement.

“Oh,” M comments. “You are just in time to watch the throwing.”

“No, no,” Cullen sputters. “This is _unsafe._ ”

Dorian points out, “A couple of your men and Leliana’s scouts have tried to point out the same thing and failed. Look, they’re involved in the throwing now too.”

A sharp grin makes its way across M’s face as he says, “We have shown them the light. The truth. The truth of throwing.” He tilts his head to the side, and the sharp-toothed grin grows even wider as he asks, “Do you wish to be involved in the throwing as well, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford?”

 _Maker_ , Cullen thinks to himself. _I swear the Lavellans only do this to creep me out, and it is working. The formality and terrifying grin are all working again._ He clears his throat and tries to regain his composure by saying authoritatively, “ _No,_ that is the _Inquisitor_ , the _Herald_ of Andraste herself, that you are throwing around.”

Dorian dismissively waves his hand and turns back to watch the action as he says, “Then by all means, I welcome you to try and stop _the throwing._ ”

Dalish, Rocky, and Krem all roar out a loud war cry, and Lavellan yelps a little bit as she’s hurled through the air. She barrels towards Bull who catches her with practiced ease.

Cullen takes a deep breath before marching over beside the wooden posts and bellowing, “STOP THROWING THE INQUISITOR. NOW!”

Everyone from the Chargers to his men to Lavellan herself pause and look up at him. The Iron Bull has Lavellan raised high above his head, ready to throw, and Cullen fixes him with the most stern and furious glare he can muster up.

“Oh, Cullen,” Bull says easily, as if this was just a mere conversation in the tavern that he was having. “Do you want to join the throwing too?”

Cullen snaps, “ _No_. And my soldiers, the scouts, I had better expectations from you all.”

Dalish glances over to another elf and asks, “Did you hear that, Skinner?”

Skinner crosses her arms and doesn’t say a word. Still, that seems to be enough of an answer for Dalish.

Dalish pats her arm and calls back to Cullen, “Even Skinner says this is safe, and Skinner has done a whole lot of shit that doesn’t comply with your rule manual you passed out a couple weeks ago. Not that we read it or anything like that, but if Skinner says it, I would believe her.”

Krem laughs a little bit as he says, “We’ve had a surprisingly good track record, Commander. No one has dropped her yet.” Rocky, Bull, and everybody else nods in union. Even M and Dorian.

“ _Yet,_ ” Cullen repeats, utterly aghast.

Krem shakes his head and mumbles, “I think that you’re just being pessimistic.”

“I have to say,” Dorian chimes in. “I might agree.”

Dalish gestures towards Lavellan and adds, “Don’t worry, she can take care of herself.” As an afterthought, she adds, “And I have healing magic if we need it. Uh, I mean arrows. Healing arrows. Yeah.”

Cullen has to clamp his hand over his mouth and suck in a few deep breaths before he takes his hands away and attempts to say evenly, “The goal is to _not_ need it.” He fails utterly, and instead, his voice still vibrates with leftover anger.

Lavellan waves her hand at Cullen from her high perch and pipes up, “I am fine, Cullen. Thank you for worrying though. Would you like to try? You can throw or be thrown. Either option is very fun.”

Cullen sighs and shakes his head, “No, _no,_ I don’t even want to think about it.”

Leliana passes by with an amused smirk and comes up behind Cullen on silent steps. He jumps as she suddenly hums by his left side, “I cannot wait to read your report on this before the next advisor meeting, _Commander.”_

Cullen jerks away at the sudden, unexpected sound, and he can hear the Chargers laughing in the ring. Even the Inquisitor joins in with her high, pealing giggle. Leliana smiles a brutal smile and pats him lightly on the shoulder. “You’d best get to work,” she advises before she pads away silently towards her tower.

Cullen presses his temples and tries not to think about his incoming headache.

The Chargers resume the throwing.

* * *

 

Cassandra cannot believe that this is her Inquisitor. Lavellan looks so peaceful when she sleeps. She has her head on Cassandra’s lap under the shade of a half-built barricade. Her eyelashes are long, and sometimes, she flutters them in her sleep as she dreams. Cassandra tips her head back up to stare at the sky — no green fire, no tendrils of broken spirits, no demons falling out of the now-absent Breach — and glances back down at Lavellan.

Lavellan does not seem like the same Inquisitor who brought down the wrath of heaven and the sheer weight of a thousand snows down on Corypheus. Lavellan does not seem like the same Inquisitor who traveled through time and burst through the fabric of reality to come back to her side. Because right now, Lavellan seems like any other ordinary woman. Sleeping, soft, gentle, almost angelic. When Cassandra accidentally jostles Lavellan’s head, the elf wrinkles her nose and curls up closer to Cassandra.

Cassandra tucks a stray strand of dark hair behind Lavellan’s pointed ear and feels only immense relief that Lavellan is _here,_ living and breathing and safe and sound. The destruction at Haven was too close for comfort. But regardless, she doesn’t know how such a woman like her can do so much. It’s mind-boggling. When Cassandra looks down, she only sees a woman that she loves. Brilliant and vivid in all the right ways. But Cassandra also knows that Lavellan blazes with glory and mage-fire.

She searches for something to compare Lavellan to. Perhaps that would give her a good enough reference point to examine Lavellan. Maybe she will find out why and where her love for Lavellan started — dissect it apart like Minaeve does with her samples — and figure out where the crux of it all is.

The sun burns just as brightly and leaves vivid colors in its wake at sunrise and sunset, but it seems like such an overused concept to Cassandra. Even Varric’s books frequently use the sun as metaphors or similes. There’s one creative usage in a scene of _Swords and Shields_ where Varric writes it in conjunction with “the apex” of a woman’s thighs. Cassandra shakes the thought of mind _immediately,_ but she would be lying if she wasn’t entirely averse to repeating the concept with Lavellan.

Cassandra moves onto other thoughts. Flowers for softness, beauty, and elegance. Again, an overused thought. Wheat and grass are too plain to compare Lavellan to. Cassandra finds that there are too many things in the world that she could compare Lavellan to. The keen edge of a newly sharpened sword. The crackling blue electricity of lyrium. The song of larks on an early morning. Cassandra loses herself in her thoughts so thoroughly that she doesn’t notice when Lavellan stirs from her sleep.

She only notices when Lavellan reaches her arms up to loop around Cassandra’s neck. _“Aneth ara,”_ she says with a yawn. She still looks sleepy, but a small smile betrays her simple happiness at seeing Cassandra. Cassandra’s still not used to that kind of expression and flushes. “Did I sleep too long?” Lavellan asks.

“No,” Cassandra says. She glances up at the sky. It doesn’t seem like the sun has moved too much in its path in the sky.

“Good,” Lavellan says. She gets up but leans against Cassandra, shoulder to shoulder and arm to arm. “It was nice to wake up like this. Thank you for keeping me company, _lethallan.”_

“It was nothing,” Cassandra stammers out. “I was h-happy to keep you c-company.”

“Really?” Lavellan inquires. She lets her head fall in Cassandra’s lap again so that she can look directly up at Cassandra. “That is good to hear. I worried.”

“Never worry about something like that,” Cassandra hurries to say. “You are always welcome.”

Those last four words manage to make sheer joy suffuse Lavellan’s expression, and Cassandra is reminded of the world: glimmering sunrises, larks’ melodies in a field of wheat, newly-bloomed roses. There is much to compare Lavellan to — in so many moments, in so many things — but for now, Cassandra is satisfied with this moment alone. Just Lavellan and herself in a quiet moment all to themselves.

* * *

 

“Oh, darling, _please_ don’t tell me you’re going out looking like _that._ ”

Lavellan pauses in the middle of Skyhold’s throne room amongst all the ripped and torn fabric, half-built rafters and beams, and stacks of stones waiting to be set in place. She glances down at her clothes and dubiously picks at one of the holes in her trousers before asking plaintively, “Why not? Is there something wrong?”

Vivienne picks her way through the half-wreckage, half-construction area, and she looks Lavellan up and down once more before saying, “You are wearing torn trousers with too many holes, untied boots, worn-out gloves, and a stained blouse.”

“These are _comfortable_ ,” Lavellan says defensively. “And I would not normally be wearing boots. I prefer my leg wrappings, but Cassandra insisted that I wear boots if I was going to go into the construction areas. She thought that I might step on nails. I do not think I would be so careless to do something like that, but at least I wore the boots.”

Vivienne sighs heavily and says, “Yes, they may be so, but is that really the image you want to strike?”

Lavellan checks herself over again before she pulls up her trousers and tries to pinch the holes together. “Yes?” she hesitantly answers.

Vivienne shuts her eyes and takes in a deep breath before she lets it go in a spiralling exhale. “Well, I certainly see the appeal. Depending on how you carry yourself, that outfit could lend itself well to surprises if you wish to hide some talent of yours.”

Lavellan scratches her head and wrinkles her nose as she says, “No, I just wanted to wear comfy clothes, that’s all.”

Vivienne inhales once more, and she’s briefly reminded of her own self when she was young: in ratty, torn robes, running around the library with another apprentice before being caught and told off. She doesn’t remember ever having robes that weren’t hand-me-downs until she passed her Harrowing and came into some better standing as an enchanter rather than an apprentice. Then, she had her heart’s desire of choices when she entered the court and obtained the favor of nobles. But still, those hand-me-downs were soft as silk from so many washings, and they were carefully and lovingly worn to shreds. “Ah,” she says softly. “I see. Well, may I offer you a deal?”

“What is it?” Lavellan asks, her eyes glinting with a suspicious light. Vivienne suddenly remembers that Lavellan is Dalish through and through despite her naivety, and she realizes that she’ll have to pick her words carefully. There has never been a deal in the history of the Dalish that has benefited them in the long run. Suspicion gleams too clearly in the set of Lavellan’s expression.

“The same clothes, but not quite so worn out. Here, let us visit the quartermaster.”

Vivienne strides through the absolute mess that is currently Skyhold and keeps her shoulders perfectly straight and regal. Although workers are buzzing around with tools and materials, they still part ways to make room for Madame de Fer. Vivienne can feel the drill of Lavellan’s in her back, and although she can’t read the elf’s mind, she suspects there must be cogs upon cogs turning in the deep layers of her thoughts. How many truths line their way on Lavellan’s thoughts? As for Vivienne, there are several truths that she knows. Truths so vital and strong, carved into her heart of hearts and engraved into the lines of her life.

First. A woman is a woman. The Sunburst Throne always has a woman sitting in its place, and the seat of Orlais holds a human woman in the throne and an elvhen woman in the shadows just behind the crown. Even the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall were women. A woman is a person with power in this world. The former Divine, Celene, the Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall, and now, Lavellan of the Inquisition. These are the women of the world with power in their hands, and Vivienne ensures that she is one of them. She is a woman, dealing in the same power, the same influence, the same _game,_ in her own circle. This truth is a reminder of her potential and her space in the world.

Second. A mage is a mage. Women may have power in the world beyond a Circle, but that power imbalance shifts in favor of templars with lyrium that sings sun-sharp in their veins. Vivienne has seen mages fall to a holy smite and prying fingers that tear away everything whether it be clothes or dignity or bone in the case of a Harrowing gone wrong. Vivienne is both mage and woman — power simmering underneath her skin — and she knows it so intimately. She knows what mages are like and how they are treated. This truth serves as a step up rather than down.

Third. The world waits for no one. As much as Vivienne dislikes admitting it, the world does not wait for Madame de Fer either. She can make the elements still and pause with the sweep of her fingers, but that does not deny the grand scheme of the world. Motion remains in motion unless there is an equal and opposite reaction, and no one in the entirety of Thedas — not even queens or mages or Inquisitors — can change that unalterable fact. First taught in class and now taught through life’s mistakes, Vivienne sees the truth of this truth almost every single day. Still, she makes the most of it because that is what she has spent the vast majority of her life doing: making the most of it.

But despite all of these truths, Vivienne still doesn’t know where Lavellan stands. Perhaps in the intersection of all three — woman, mage, the world — but somehow, Lavellan manages to beat the odds on the third truth over and over again. There was no other way Lavellan could’ve survived the avalanche at Haven aside from a miracle, and the same went for her experience in Redcliffe.

When they arrive to the quartermaster’s rooms, Vivienne shelves her thoughts away in favor of requisitioning clothes that are useful and comfortable. She ensures that the materials are of much higher quality than the meager, cheap fabrics that Lavellan always uses for her coats and shirts. When the quartermaster admits that the Inquisition’s coffers are still too low to support it, Vivienne hands him coins of her own. Lavellan gapes at the opulent way Vivienne tosses her money down.

“Masks and purpose and manners are all important things in life, things to take into consideration,” Vivienne says. She sets a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder and feels the sharp bone of Lavellan’s shoulder digging back in her palm. _Woman, mage, the world,_ she thinks. _So fragile for the world but also sharp enough for it._ Her gaze softens and she continues, “But not everything has to be masked. Utility is important as well. Here, wear these instead.”

“Thank you, Lady Vivienne,” Lavellan says at a loss. “What do you need me to do in return for these?”  The suspicion in her eyes still gleams although far dimmer than before. Vivienne can’t fault her for it. After all, there’s no such thing that’s ever truly free. There’s always a hidden cost.

Vivienne holds up a manicured hand and shakes her head as she says, “No, it is alright. I am happy simply knowing that you are walking around with clothes in a better condition than _those_. Instead, let us both make sure that this Inquisition functions and comes together properly.”

She watches as Lavellan thanks her profusely. The suspicion on her face slides to a genuine kind of joy that she wears so easily and beautifully. Vivienne watches her bounce off to some other corner of Skyhold, and Vivienne wonders how such a slight, small thing like her stands against the world when greater women have failed at it. She originally thought that there was nothing else to be done when the world decided to move on. Move before the world does. But now, Vivienne realizes that Lavellan takes a step in stride with the rhythm of the world itself and somehow makes it turn the way she wants it to.

She watches Lavellan leave until the newly-crowned Inquisitor turns around a corner and disappears from her sight. Perhaps there is more to be learned and more to be seen from the Inquisitor, this Herald of idiosyncrasy, and Vivienne shakes her head. _Woman, mage, the world._ She revises the last one and takes it off her list. She will have to re-evaluate this last truth in relation to Lavellan and see where it stands at the end of this war.

 

* * *

 

“Blackwall?”

Blackwall glances up from his newest project (a wooden rocking griffin) and sees Lavellan and Sera standing near the entryway of one of the stable doors. Some of the stags and even a dracolisk try to stretch their heads out further to nose up against Lavellan’s shoulder. The two look like they’ve done something mischievous with the way that their mouths are rather decidedly pressing together to restrain smiles and the glints in their eyes. It’s the classic “I have done something whether you like it or not” look that he’s grown so used to all the women around here wearing. He has to agree with Cullen; trying to stop or prevent whatever they were doing often ends up with him in more trouble than he expects. He internally sighs before setting down his chisel and quizzically answers, “Yes?”

Sera and Lavellan exchange glances before Lavellan blurts out, “Do you actually own a wall that is black?”

“Excuse me?” Blackwall says dumbly. He doesn’t know what this question will lead to nor does he really want to know.

Sera quirks an eyebrow and spreads her hands wide in a broad gesture as she explains, “You know, your name? It has to come from somewhere.” She laughs a little as she repeats, “So, do you own a black wall?”

Blackwall blinks again before hesitatingly saying, “Uh, no?”

“Really?” Lavellan says as her shoulders slump. She looks thoroughly dejected about his answer and looks at him with her shining, reflective eyes. Disappointment is etched into both of the elves’ brows as they trudge out of the stables with much more melancholy than when they originally entered it.

Blackwall stands there, staring at where they were and at the door as it gently sways back and forth on its hinges as the wind blows past. He feels as though he’s failed some sort of test. With another gusting, heavy sigh, he turns back to his little workbench and instead of picking up his chisel, he picks up a paintbrush instead.

The next day, when Lavellan bounces into the stables to say hello to all of the mounts, she notices that the stables smell distinctly different than they did before. She pauses and swivels her head around. Then, she gasps, loud and open, as she sees Blackwall, asleep and curled up on the floor in front...

In front of a wall painted completely black.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra looks up to see Josephine in all of her golden, ruffled glory. The ambassador has a strict and thoroughly displeased expression on her face as she declares, “We are having an intervention. Come, Seeker, we are going to my office. No ifs, ands, or buts, please.” Her voice is firm; she will not yield. Cassandra knows that it’s probably better to follow Josephine and see whatever managed to strike up her ire.

Cassandra follows her wordlessly to her office, and inside, she’s surprised to see nearly the entirety of the Inquisitor’s inner circle and the advisors there as well. The only absent members are Blackwall and Lavellan herself. Josephine clears her throat and says crisply, “Warden Blackwall has done us all a favor by taking Inquisitor Lavellan out to investigate some Warden artifacts in the Hinterlands.”

In the back, Sera sniggers, “Betcha they won’t find anything good.”

“Wasn’t that the point of them going out though?” Dorian asks with a raise of his brows. “The entire point was to distract our dear Lavellan.”

“Well, yeah, but I left some surprises for them to find,” Sera answers almost a little too gleefully.

Josephine pinches her temples and waits for the group to settle down before she says, “We are gathered here to have an intervention in the course of your personal affections, Seeker.”

Cassandra doesn’t even have the chance to protest because Varric cuts in to say, “Birdie’s been awfully quiet and withdrawn and all that shit, and it’s really killing the mood.”

“Just fuck the Inquisitor already,” Bull rumbles. “It would save both of you some unnecessary sexual tension.”

Leliana clears her throat and everyone falls silent once more. No one wants to cross the spymaster, and she stands up to face Cassandra. “The quality and the quantity of her work decreases when the two of you play your little avoidance game,” she says frankly. Her voice is clear and steady, as if she were reading out another report at the war table. “And you bury yourself in work, and we never see you outside your office or the training ring anymore. Therefore, for the sake of our collective mental health and your romantic life, Josephine and I decided to host an intervention. You may thank us later.”

She sits back down and Josephine picks up her tablet. “A flame please,” she asks as she surveys the room. Vivienne leans over to pinch the candle wick, and it bursts into a small, flickering flame. “Thank you, Madame,” she says with an incline of her head. Then, with her quill in hand, she lists off, “We have M and Cole here for personal insights to the Inquisitor’s preferences and specific characteristics. Varric, Dorian, and Vivienne are here for the romantic aspects of courting, and Solas and M can offer a specific elvhen perspective on courting. The Iron Bull and Sera are on hand to inform you of sexual matters, and Cullen… Cullen is here to look pretty. Grooming techniques, perhaps, and Vivienne, Leliana, and I can cover the fashion and makeup aspects if you so require.” Josephine makes several check marks to her list and looks up expectantly at Cassandra.

Cassandra almost chokes on her own words and sinks down in a chair that Solas helpfully pushes out for her. Josephine’s office is veritably cramped with the sheer number of people packed into it, and some people are even sitting in the hallway leading towards the War Room.

“You know,” Varric slyly says. “We wouldn’t be having this meeting if you just made a move on Birdie already.”

“Hot and heavy, her body against mine, _can anyone see us here, no, they can’t,”_ Cole adds. “The touch of her fingers against my lips, her hands in mine as we dance.”

Bull leans in with an excited glint in his eye as he says, “Go on, Cole, did they fuck or nah?”

Cole tilts his head, making his hat sway. “Skin to skin, heart to heart, but no, she pulls away, _what did I do, what did I say?”_ he supplies.

“Fuck,” Bull groans along with Sera.

M smugly leans over to extend his hand out, and gold passes from a multitude of hands to him. “I knew it,” he crows. “And yet, you did not believe me! I know my sister better. She would not make a move unless the Seeker explicitly asked for it or if the Seeker made the first move.” He counts up the gold and with each clink of the coins, he says, “Seeker Pentaghast, thank you for being one of the sources of my personal income. Also, there are 150 pieces of gold missing from the winnings I am owed. Pay up.”

Dorian grumbles and passed him a few more coins while Sera chucks several at him. M only lifts one hand in the air, and the coins magically float over to him in a single, orderly line. “Weird-ass magic shite,” Sera mutters before she throws one last coin at him.

The entire afternoon evolves into a crash course on romance for Cassandra.

M and Solas teach her several new words in elvhen related to courtship and romance, and M even teaches her how to use dirty talk in elvhen. Cassandra flushes bright red, and Solas gives M a disapproving look. Still, M only shrugs and scrawls down another glyph on the parchment. He taps the paper and says, “And that is the fourth way to say you want to fuck her in elvhen but in a more sexier way.”

“That is grammatically incorrect,” Solas grumbles. “Your dialect of Free Marcher Dalish is shortened to the point of incoherency.”

M shrugs, “If you are in a rush, then that is what you say. If the ancient elves of Arlathan paused to parse each syllable out correctly, then sex would take an entire week.”

“It did,” Solas informs him.

M side-eyes Solas before muttering under his breath, “And I am sure you saw _that_ in the Fade too, old man.”

Varric writes up an entire list of good phrases to use “during a date” or “for love letters if you even want to write them or whatever.” Vivienne offers up various fashion choices for different kinds of dates, and Dorian adds several locations for good dates across Thedas. He does wrinkle his nose and complain about the general lack of good dating locations within Ferelden that are not “tainted with mud and the scent of wet dogs.”

The “seminar” with the Iron Bull and Sera is, by far, the worst. Cassandra doesn’t even know if she can legitimately call it a seminar. It’s just a series of descriptive stories about sex. Bull offers up far too many stories involving rope and Sera constantly mentions the female anatomy in relation to things that should have no business near the female anatomy. They make _Swords and Shields_ look tame in comparison, and that is no small feat. Cassandra is red for the first half of their in-depth discussion and then returns to a normal color once she adjusts. By the end of the seminar, she doesn’t even know how she’s going to hoist Lavellan up in the air and perform some sort of acrobatic trick that Sera mentioned, but she thinks she’ll have a decent grasp of where to begin. Also, she has to admit that the “seminar” was thorough and informative despite the crass delivery of said knowledge.

 

* * *

 

“Must you always go on side quests and fulfill random favors when you are out, Inquisitor?”

Cullen runs a hand through his hair, clearly frazzled, and looks harder at a report that he holds with his other hand. It almost looks like he can simply make the unwanted detail on the report go away by looking harder at it. But then, he sighs and sets down the parchment on the table before he looks up wearily at Inquisitor Lavellan.

She simply replies, “Why would I not? They are people that need our help.”

Josephine nods along and adds, “She does have a point. Also, it helps build up the Inquisition’s reputation which is always a plus.”

“But she just wastes so much time? It’s throwing off some of the projected timelines that we have drafted for various areas,” Cullen points out. “And we need our Inquisitor on the most highest priority missions.”

Lavellan sighs, “Is giving aid to others not high priority?” Her lip curls slightly at the word “priority” and the branches that line her cheeks seem to look harder with her sharpening expression.

“As much as I hate to agree with the commander,” Leliana quietly says. “I must say that we do have other missions to prioritize more.”

“I have always done so,” Lavellan emphasizes as she swivels her gaze to Leliana.

“You went to go look for a missing druffalo and guide it back to its farm in Redcliffe,” Cullen says dryly. “Is that prioritizing?”

“The druffalo was _very_ important,” Lavellan insists. She crosses her arms and looks rather indignant about it all, but Cullen remains unmoved.

Josephine glances down at her clipboard and fiddles with her quill as she says hesitantly, “Alright, the druffalo was a little… How should I say it?”

“Ridiculous?” Leliana tries.

Josephine shoots her a dark glare and says, “Not the kind of tact I was looking for, Leliana.”

“The druffalo _was_ ridiculous,” Cullen maintains. “I couldn’t believe the report when I saw it.”

Lavellan suddenly slams her hands down on the war table, and she hits it with such force that the small markers atop the map nearest her hands shake. One topples over, and Lavellan looks up with a hard, intense look in her eyes. “Helping people is _important_ ,” she states, voice low and heavy. “What, may I ask, is the _point_ of the Inquisition if we do not _help_ people?” She raises an eyebrow, and with it, the branches of her vallaslin rise up as well. “Is that not hypocritical of you to ask me to stop _helping?”_ she asks, gaze turning to Cullen.

His face flushes pink, and he opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off, “We are fighting a monster that proclaims itself to be a god.” She gestures to the map in front of them, sweeping from Orlais to Ferelden. “Gods do not distinguish between human needs and human wants,” she says. “They take and they demand. They desire sacrifice and the fulfillment of their own wishes.”

Lavellan takes a breath, and Leliana could swear that she recognizes the haunted look in Lavellan’s eyes. It is the look of someone who knows that they are made to be more than what they actually are; it was the same look that the Warden bore.

“Are we to become gods among men?” Am I to be like a god in order to fight another who calls himself so?” she asks Cullen without waiting for an answer. “Am I to ignore others in need in order to chase after our own?” She shakes her head, looking incredulous and disgusted. “No, I refuse. We _cannot_ be like Corypheus,” she insists. “We must be the ones to extend our hands and offer aid to the downtrodden regardless of what country they come from or what race they are.”

Her voice dies down, and Lavellan looks down at the map. Her loose hair falls down to hide her face, but she keeps on going, voice soft, “I will not become a god nor am I a herald for your missing god. Not for you, not for the Inquisition, not for the Chantry.” She raises her head, and her gaze drills straight into Cullen. “I will not ignore the cries of help from the helpless. That is not who I am. That is not who I want to be. This is my final decision.”

She lifts up her head and levels her gaze at her advisors.

“Does anyone have objections still?” Lavellan asks.

Silence is her only answer.

 

* * *

 

“You all brought a giant _lizard_ back to the Inquisition,” Cullen repeats dumbfoundedly.

Dorian, Vivienne, and Blackwall all give Cullen a look that’s halfway between murderous and disdain.

“Do you think that we would?” Vivienne asks with a withering glare.

“You can’t be serious to think that we would,” Blackwall adds. “We’re not stupid.”

“And also, do you know how hard it is to say no to the Lavellans?” Dorian says with a look of utter disbelief on his face. “One is bad enough, but two? At the same time? We couldn’t even stop them at the camp. L and M were balancing on the thing’s back while it was hissing and spitting acid.”

Cullen doesn’t know where to look, and currently, the options that he’s debating are to bury his face in his hands or to look down at the report instead. He wants to save at least a few shreds of his dignity so he chooses to look down at the report instead. He’s incredibly disturbed to see that the dracolisk in question spat acid on the Inquisitor’s boots (which was surprising to begin with since the Inquisitor rarely wore _shoes_ ) and that the Inquisitor just scratched the hide behind its horns and crooned Dalish lullabies at it.

He doesn’t understand why a Lavellan problem lands on his desk so often. Shouldn’t this be a job for the ambassador or the spymaster to handle? He’s the commander of the Inquisition’s military forces. For Maker’s sake, this shouldn’t even _be_ here.

He highly suspects that Leliana prefers to watch him suffer rather than to let Josephine handle the burden. He honestly can’t blame her either. He’d take a Lavellan or Sera problem over a noble problem any day, and Josephine was stretched so thin that Cullen didn’t understand how the woman coped with it all.

Blackwall shrugs, “We figured that you would hear it best from us anyways.”

Vivienne nods along while Dorian barks out a laugh, “At least it’s not our business to handle anymore, _Commander_ . At least in the Circle at Minrathous, I never had to deal with a _dracolisk._ I cannot even believe the Lavellans want to _ride_ the thing too.”

Vivienne gestures to the report and says, “Best of luck with the report, Commander. I trust that you will be the one informing poor Master Dennet? Good afternoon then. I am going to handle the rest of my business for the day.” She sweeps out of his office with just as much regality as she had when she came in.

Cullen is left staring at his report. Blackwall and Dorian exchange glances before Blackwall sighs and fishes out a flask from one of his pockets. He holds it up to Cullen with an eyebrow raised.

Cullen takes the flask weakly and drains it entirely. He’ll need it if he has to finish dealing with the mess.

 

* * *

 

 "Dammit, they just don’t stop,” the Iron Bull grumbles as he yanks out the blade of his axe from crushed armor. The once-blue uniform of the Wardens turns into a bleeding kind of black once he yanks it out.

“At least they’re being upfront about trying to kill you,” Dorian comments. “Quite a shame when they don’t, really. And I should know. Those kinds of people are just teeming at any proper Tevinter party.”

Iron Bull gives him one of his _looks_ as he dryly says, “I’m _trained_ to look for those things, you know.”

Varric reloads Bianca as he says, “Alright, alright, kids, while you two talk it out, Wings and I will just take care of the new wave of people charging at us with pointy swords.” He gestures to M with his other hand as he speaks.

M gives Varric a thumbs-up as he exhales softly over an arrow. The arrow gleams momentarily before appearing like a regular arrow again. He lifts his bow up, aims, and then shoots the arrow. The arrow leaves an icy cloud in its wake and solidifies the next Warden into a block of ice.

Dorian gestures with his staff and summons a bolt of lightning as he snips, “Excuse me, I am _trying_ , and I feel as though that should be appreciated more.”

The Iron Bull hefts his axe and says, “I really am trained though. Secrets and all that.”

Dorian slams his staff down on the ground and says with a wave of his left hand, “And yet, you still told us all that you were a Ben-Hassrath.”

Varric fires off several bolts in succession and then turns to give the two a good, solid glare as he loads Bianca with a mechanical click again. Bull shrugs, “What can I say, I figured that it would be better than having Leliana find out later. The woman would probably have me murdered in my sleep for betrayal.”

M shoots another arrow, and this time, the Warden falls writhing on the floor in flames. “Would you have died though?” he wonders.

Bull shakes his head, “Nah, I’ve gotten training for that too.”

M smiles briefly, “Good. You don’t seem like the type to die quietly.”

Bull pauses and gives M a questioning look. “Why is that so important?” he asks.

Varric snaps, “Because we’re all getting attacked right now, and we need you to hold them off while we shoot them!” He holds up Bianca for emphasis and snaps, “Bianca is amazing, but I can’t do anything if I’m being run over with tall humans with shields! Now, move it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will entirely admit that there is very little of the cass x lavellan romance in this chapter which is a large reason why most of these scenes were cut hahaha :") i hope you still enjoyed it though!


	4. the great game

Leliana likes to think that she has moved on from previous grudges. Accepted things. Moved on. Learned to love others like the Divine did. But, she also knows that she knows herself too well for that, and she knows that she carries grudges all too well.  
  
And this grudge with the Commander remains.  
  
Oh, Josie always tries to tell her that he is a fundamentally good man, and Cassandra insists that he is trying. But, when Leliana looks at Cullen, she does not see the current Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. No, she sees the young and almost broken Templar that was trapped in the Circle Tower, the young man who spat hateful things at her beloved Warden. She sees the Knight-Captain who stood by as Meredith Stannard wreaked havoc on the city of Kirkwall and on mages. She can not reconcile that perspective with the current Commander that the Inquisition has now.  
  
She still thinks that that Templar, Evangeline de Brassard from Orlais — the one that dealt with the mage murders in a fair and reasonable manner — was still the better choice for the position of Commander. Or perhaps, Samson, the one from Kirkwall who was evicted from the Order for his sympathy towards mages.  Even Guard Captain Aveline Vallen, infamous for her friendship with the Champion and famous for her reformation of the Kirkwall city guard, would have been a far better Commander than this templar Cassandra scraped from the burned remains of the Gallows.  
  
“Isn’t everything in Orlais ‘dangerously complicated?’” Cullen asks with a wrinkle in his brow. That wrinkle lightens a bit as he chuckles, “It’s the Orlesian national pastime!”

Leliana bristles and says sharply, “Turn your nose up at the Grand Game if you like, Commander. But _we_ play for the highest stakes, _and to the death._ ”  
  
Everyone around Josephine’s desk blinks at her harsh tone, and Josephine gives her that look that she always gives Leliana when she steps too far. Still, Leliana feels no regret over it.  
  
She remembers the Circle Tower like it was yesterday. Honestly, she shouldn’t be the one carrying this grudge. It should be the Hero of Ferelden. Her best friend. Her lover. But still, she remembers the harsh words he spoke about mages and what they deserved. It is more than she could bear, and as soon as the meeting ended, she sweeps out of the room and goes back up to her high tower.

Her ravens caw as she ascends the stairs to her small nook, and one hops closer to her, nudging at her palm. “I have no messages for you today,” she whispers softly as she pets its feathers. It cocks his head to the side and continues nudging at her for more pets. Leliana sighs heavily and wonders where her dear love is now. She wonders if her grudge will ever lessen.

_Probably not_ , she thinks to herself. But, she cannot allow herself to be this selfish. She simply cannot. Her grudge with the Commander cannot be allowed to sour her relationships with others nor could it be allowed to disturb her work.

And perhaps, this effort, this cause, would motivate her to seek out a more forgiving way of life. A kind of attitude and feeling that Mother Dorothea would be proud of. Something that her Warden would be proud of.

 

* * *

 

Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition forces, has no idea how to handle women. Especially when they are trying to get him to do something. His usual tactic is to distract the woman and then run away. It has a 78% success rate which he considers successful. But then, after careful consideration, he has to admit that his experience with women are always with women who are… Probably stronger than him emotionally and in personality.

He shudders when he recalls the Champion of Kirkwall forcing him to sit down on a stool in his own office as she took over his own comfy chair and “chatted” with him about the benefits of magic. She had gestured with her hands to emphasize the point, and that would have been all fine and dandy had she not held a lyrium-infused dagger in one hand and fiery sparks in the other. She wasn’t even a _rogue._ Cullen still doesn’t know how she got her hands on a lyrium-infused dagger out of all things.

Then, there is Leliana who probably could and probably would gut him in his sleep and then feed his remains to her ravens. He suspects that she still holds a grudge from his days at Lake Calenhad. He can’t blame her; he hates himself for that too. Even sweet and kind Josephine manages to put a cold and solid fear into him at any given moment. There’s something terrifying about the way the woman wields guilt and pity when he refuses something that she “suggests.”

That is the exact emotion he feels when he stands there behind the war table with four women beadily staring at him. Sweat breaks out on his brow as he tries to argue, “I insist, there is absolutely no reason for me to attend the ball at the Winter Palace!”

Leliana examines her fingernails idly as she says, “You only need to stand there and look pretty.”

Cassandra fumes, “If _I_ am to attend the ball, then by all means, the Commander must be there as well.”

Lavellan crosses her arms and says, “If Cullen doesn’t have to go, I see no reason why I have to go to a _shemlen_ party as well.”

Josephine casts her gaze to the side and murmurs sadly, “If our dear Commander does not go, whatever shall I do? Explaining it away will be… _Difficult_ , and I fear that the dignitaries and ambassadors and nobility will all take it poorly. It would be most unfortunate for our reputation…”

He runs a hand through his hair and sweats. Cullen thinks of his usual strategy and despairs. He could distract the Inquisitor with a handful of her favorite chestnuts or perhaps a bun from the kitchens. He could pay the price of distraction by agreeing to a sparring match with Cassandra (and then having his arse handed to him brutally with a wooden sword). But Leliana? Josephine?

He exhales a heavy sigh and faces the utter and absolute truth. It seems as though there’s no escape out of this one.

 

* * *

 

The Inquisitor’s bed chambers are large and expansive with numerous balconies and tall vaulted windows. It’s a perfectly suitable place for a world leader to reside in. And it’s currently filled with dresses and fabric swatches of every kind.

Dorian examines a set of possible color swatches with Vivienne while Josephine fusses over a few accessories. Leliana deliberates between several pairs of shoes while Cassandra is left in the middle of the room with a rope tied to Inquisitor Lavellan’s ankle. Another rope ties Lavellan’s other ankle to Dorian’s.

Lavellan looks at Cassandra mournfully, and she wordlessly shrugs before holding the rope end up in her hand. Almost immediately, without looking up from the color swatches, Vivienne says, “Now, do be a dear and stand still for one moment. It’s time for the next dress.”

Dorian glances up and laughs, “Oh, don’t look at us like that. You just can’t go to the Winter Palace looking like _that._ ”

Lavellan grumbles, “What is so wrong with leg wrappings? And my coat? It is a good coat. I had it made out of bear hide since Cassandra killed so many bears.”

Josephine absentmindedly shuffles through a few more dresses on hangers while saying, “Oh, that reminds me, we must get Cassandra fitted for a dress.”

Cassandra bristles at the mere mention of a dress fitting, but Leliana smiles, “Will you be able to get her in a dress in the first place? We don’t have a Dorian for Cassandra like we do for Lavellan. If we tied Lavellan to her, then Lavellan would help her escape.”

Dorian spreads his hands and says, “I know, it’s a shame. The world would be _such_ a better place with more Dorians in it. But frankly, who needs me for Cassandra when you have Josephine Montilyet? The woman wields guilt like a weapon.”

Josephine looks up and smiles beatifically at Dorian before going back through the dresses.

Lavellan groans dramatically and tugs her ankle away from Dorian. He shakes his end of the rope at her and tuts, “Now, now, if I had to go with you to the Fallow Mire, you are going to stay right here until your dress fitting is over.”

She mutters under her breath, “At least we were doing _exciting_ things in the Fallow Mire. We found the bog unicorn there.”

Vivienne casually interjects, “We also lost my good pair of combat boots custom-made for me from Nevarra, tore Dorian’s hideous cloak from Tevinter, and got Varric stuck waist-deep in mud while dead corpses were attacking him. _I_ believe that this is a much more appealing option, darling.”

Dorian looks aghast and says indignantly, “That was my _good_ cloak from Tevinter! It had gilt trimming!”

Vivienne sets her fabric swatches down and levels one of her classic “Madame de Fer” looks at him. “It was hideous and tacky,” she says flatly. “Thank the Maker it was lost forever to the bog. I shudder to think of that cloak ever stepping foot in the likes of places like Orlais.”

“You wound me, Madame de Fer.”

“I am glad to hear it, my dear Tevinter altus.”

Lavellan sighs heavily before yanking her shirt off rather violently. She then strips off her breeches and proceeds to stand there in her smallclothes while tapping her foot against the floor without a trace of embarrassment.

“Fine, then by Mythal, let us get this over with. _Now._ ”

 

* * *

 

There is much to do if she is to go back to Halamshiral.

Vivienne considers her closet before decisively choosing several silver gowns. Her hennin of burnished metal, pointed and polished to perfect. Her heels carved out of the bones of an old beast that no one dares to speak of. Her corsets inlaid with runes and enchantments to keep bards’ knives at bay. These are only half of the things that she must bring if she is to play in the epicenter of the Great Game again.

Vivienne idly wonders if she’ll have time to visit Bastien during their jaunt into Orlais, but she instantly dismisses the thought as soon as it comes. She cannot afford weakness, and although she loves the sweet and absolutely besotted man, she fears that there may be a play in the Game to hurt him, to hurt _her_ through him.

That is something that she will not tolerate. No, if anything, she must be at the ball to guard the Inquisitor, to divert the harshest of words and boldest of plays against her.

Dorian, Cullen, Solas, and Iron Bull all enjoy chess. A clever game, they call it. But it is a game of simple movements, a facsimile of war, a tawdry comparison to the Great Game itself. Theirs is a game for men sitting in towers with nothing for their minds to occupy. The Great Game is a game that Vivienne, Leliana, and Josephine play. Theirs is a game of true war where one misstep will lead them astray, where one glove misplaced will mean a war, where one word will mean their victory or their complete devastation.

So, yes, Vivienne must prepare, and she must prepare _well._ There is too much riding on this single ball — the fate of Orlais, the fate of the Inquisition, the honor of Lady Inquisitor Ellana herself — for Vivienne to fail.

She selects her clothes and packs them all away in a suitcase personally. This is something that requires a more personal touch that her maids cannot accomplish. Once everything is tucked away and in place, Vivienne gathers up several letters and documents.

She exits her personal quarters and heads towards Josephine’s office. The woman is like an artist with the Game, painting shades of honor and reputation over the great canvas of Thedas. Her brushes are her connections, her paints are her motives and her imagination and the deft vitality of her words. Vivienne brings her letters to Josephine rather than Leliana because Vivienne would rather see Orlais painted over with Josephine’s words rather than Leliana’s knives.

Oh, Vivienne knows that Leliana is slowly growing soft. She’s heard rumors of the gentle Chantry sister who endured the Fifth Blight. But she is not growing tender fast enough. Vivienne likes women like her, women that are forged in conflict and are sharper than the men around them. But Vivienne does not need blood or knives.

Yet.

And when she needs them, she can cast her own.

So, she knocks on the door to Josephine’s office. “Come in,” she hears in Josephine’s richly accented voice.

Vivienne opens the door and gives Josephine a small smile. Josephine immediately gets up and greets her by saying, “Madame de Fer, what a pleasure to see you.” Although she is smiling, Vivienne can see the tension lying in the corners of her eyes. Josephine has been stretched far too thin over these past couple of weeks. Not only had Josephine been struggling to help the Inquisition gather more supplies and forces for their impending assault on Adamant, Josephine has been in continual contact with Orlais.

But Vivienne peels off one layer of her smile to reveal the truth underneath. She holds up the letters and says, “I have a gift for you, Ambassador.”

“Oh?” Josephine asks. The look in her eyes remains pleasant and even, but there’s a glint to them that wasn’t there before. Vivienne thinks that it is awfully reminiscent of the shine of gold, to the sparkle of a merchant’s eyes, to the light in an master artist’s eyes when they set to work.

Vivienne steps over to set them down on Josephine’s desk and tells her, “They aren’t anything special by any means, Ambassador. Merely letters indicating nobles of interest that I believe you will want to look out for at Halamshiral. Some are not attending the ball itself, but I am sure they would be amenable to a visit from the Inquisition before the ball.”

Anyone would like a meeting with the Inquisition before the ball at the Winter Palace. The entirety of Orlais has been seething and frothing with the civil war, and the presence of the Inquisition means the presence of a new piece in the Great Game. Intelligent players would want to get a glimpse of the Inquisition as soon as they could before the actual event. But these letters were hand-picked by Vivienne to be the most promising ones only.

“Thank you, Madame de Fer,” Josephine breathes out as she quickly scans through the first letter. “This will be more than helpful in the days to come.” She sets down the letter and looks up at Vivienne. “Truly, I appreciate it.”

Vivienne clicks her tongue before she says, “Oh, no need to thank me, darling. I am merely doing the work that must be done as we all do. I must take my leave now, but do take care, Ambassador. After all, we leave for Orlais in a few days, and we must have you in perfect health before our departure.”

Josephine dips her head and says, “Of course, Madame. We must all be ready to perform our best on the grand stage of Orlais.”

Correct indeed. And Vivienne intends to ensure that the spotlight shines on the Inquisition.

 

* * *

 

“Inquisitor, you cannot bring a dragon to Orlais,” Josephine says tiredly.

Lavellan groans, “But Josephine, it is not even a big dragon. Biscuit is still a _baby,_ and she is cute and small and adorable.”

“That thing spat fire all over my recruits,” Cullen says dryly. “I wouldn’t call that thing ‘cute’ and ‘adorable.’ It also takes far too many resources to feed.”

Lavellan makes a face towards Cullen. “The recruits Biscuit snorted fire on were templars who tried to smite it,” she says. “Also Biscuit is very useful. She eats Venatori. That solves both her food problem and our enemy problem. She can also fuel ovens. Again, very useful.”

Leliana hides a smile behind her hand, but that only fuels Lavellan’s enthusiasm. “See, Leliana likes the idea,” Lavellan points out. “I can keep Biscuit by my side to keep away any Orlesians who are too irritating, and I can have Biscuit eat any Venatori we find. Also, it will tip the Great Game towards my favor. I do not know a single person who would willingly fight against someone who has a dragon except for Iron Bull, but that is mostly because the Iron Bull has a kink for fighting dragons and that is very, very rare.”

Josephine pinches her bridge of her nose and wonders what she ever did in her life for the Maker to curse her so. She has a hard time enough keeping the rest of Thedas in line. Once, she had to navigate a sea of political discourse from both Antiva and Orlais while keeping Nevarra and the Free Marches on their toes. But that was _easier_ than changing Inquisitor Lavellan’s mind once it was set.

But this is a battle that Josephine refuses to lose.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra is frustrated.

Time and time again, the fickle details of politics seem to be out to trip her up and choke her ankles and tie her down in a sea of rustling ball gowns and simpering smiles. Whether it was in Nevarra or Orlais or Ferelden, it was always there to taunt her. She cannot stand it at all.

And yet, here she is, in the palace of Halam’shiral, dressed in the crimson red uniform of the Inquisition. She sips at a glass of red wine in hopes that other people will _take a hint_ and leave her alone, but still, nobles come to bow and beg at her feet. Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast did not become a Seeker of Truth and start the Inquisition for _this shit._

Regardless, she stands there and pastes on a fake smile that probably looks like a grimace based on Josephine’s expression. Josephine swoops in to save the day with a few gracious words here and there, and Cassandra excuses herself gratefully. Before she leaves, Josephine presses another wine glass in her other hand and whispers, “Here, you look like you needed it.”

Cassandra passes off her empty wine glass to an elven servant and sips at the wine that Josephine gave her. She wrinkles her nose; it’s one of those sickeningly sweet dessert wines that Josephine loves. She prefers a rich, dark red herself, something darker and more velvet on the back of the tongue. With a sigh, Cassandra makes her way to an empty balcony and revels in the crisp night air.

Cassandra automatically scans her surroundings for any dangers; there is an excellent hiding spot for a bard behind several large ornamental pots, and there is a large bush beneath the balcony for a clever archer to hide behind. She eases herself into a position where she can immediately defend herself and then forces herself to relax. Her shoulders go down, and her fingers slightly loosen on the wine glass stem. It’s not much, but it’s still infinitely better than the ballroom redolent with sweat and perfumes and the distinct scent of musk. She shakes her head at that; even amongst all the dangers of the Game and beyond, nobles still find time to cavort behind curtains and doors.

With that, she takes another sticky sweet sip of wine and tilts her head up to gaze at the stars. Cassandra can still remember her mentor teaching her the constellations so that she wouldn’t get lost as easily in the wilds. He pointed out Bellitanus, the Maiden, as well as Draconis, the High Dragon. They are familiar, and with a twinge of her heart, she remembers that her brother once gazed at the stars with ardor before.

No matter, the stars still shine bright, and this old melancholy is easier to bear than the weight of reputation and influence of politics that lay in her blood. _The Pentaghast line never does let me escape,_ she thinks wryly to herself.

Cassandra jolts out of her thoughts when a voice comments behind her, “The stars are beautiful tonight. Although, not as beautiful as the lady in front of me.” Cassandra grimaces as she turns around and sees a chevalier. His mouth quirks as he says, “My apologies, milady, I didn’t mean to distract or disturb you. I only wanted to converse with you.”

She raises an eyebrow and archly replies, “Then by all means, go.”

He does not go.

Instead, he steps closer to the edge of the balcony and tips his head to stare at the sky as well. After a moment, he breathes out, “The Maiden is strong and bright tonight and in the center of the sky. One of my mentors once taught me how to navigate using the stars” With a small smile, he adds, “Just as bright as you are, _mademoiselle_.”

Cassandra blinks owlishly at the chevalier before she snorts, “Bellitanus? Like me? You must be mistaken. I do not merit a comparison with Bellitanus.”

He shrugs and says simply, “Perhaps so and perhaps not. The fact remains that you are an extraordinary woman. The news does not lie. You founded the Inquisition with Leliana in the face of Chantry opposition and helped it become a force to be reckoned with Thedas.” Cassandra can spot the pink flush on his cheeks when he says it, but he remains firm and even adds, “You are saving the world, Lady Pentaghast.”

Frankly, she is taken aback. Cassandra isn’t particularly used to nobles being so frank with her, especially during a ball. He notes the look of surprise on her face and wryly smiles, “I apologize for my honesty, but that is the truth. We nobles aren’t particularly known for being so frank, but that does not mean we cannot do so. And if anything, I was always a bad noble. The dark horse of the family if you will.”

Cassandra inclines her head as she spoke, “No, I appreciate the honesty. It is… Refreshing.”

She turns back up to gaze at Bellitanus glittering in the expanse of black sky. Only prodigal women with power at their fingertips had been compared to the Star Maiden. Queen Madrigal, for one, and Queen Asha as well. She cannot even hope to compare to the likes of them. But still… Bellitanus reminds her of Lavellan more than herself. Beautiful and powerful. Lavellan once summoned an entire storm and unleashed it onto a field of enemies, sending lighting and fire sparking through each and every one of that. But moreso than that, Lavellan is beautiful and lovely in all the gentle ways and in all the soft moments. Cassandra thinks fondly about Lavellan and thinks that she out of all people is the one who deserves such an epithet. 

“Thank you,” she says with startling abruptness. Cassandra turns on her heel as she says so, expecting to see the chevalier. But to her surprise, he was gone, almost as if he was never there.

Cassandra takes a sip of her sickeningly sweet wine in order to calm her nerves. How silent had he had to be to sneak away from her? She had gone through grueling training; she should have noticed. She leans against the stone railing and takes one more sweet sip of wine before tipping her head up once more.

Bellitanus?

_Perhaps_ , she concedes. _Perhaps._

And she remains completely oblivious to the fact that there are now two people behind her.

Inquisitor Lavellan smiles a vicious smile and tightens her grip on the starched collar she holds. She presses him against the wall next to the balcony doors. She can hear his heart pounding and his breath quickening. Does she know who he is? No. Does she care? No.

Lavellan lifts her index finger up to her lips and allows her teeth to flash in the bright moonlight filtering in through the balconies. Her eyes reflect the light and turn into flat disks of color in the shadows before she drags him off into some other dark corner.

The chevalier stutters something, but Lavellan does not stop. No one sees them go except for a group of elven servants. Once they reach some other place out of Cassandra’s range, she lets him go but remains in front of him, blocking his way. “What, may I ask, were you doing?” she asks softly, dangerously.

“Only praising a beautiful woman,” the chevalier stutters out.

Inquisitor Lavellan lifts her chin and murmurs, “Ah, is that so?”

Later, the elven servants swear that they never saw the Inquisitor. Still, they murmur excitedly amongst themselves. After all, they saw the famous Inquisitor suplex a chevalier into the ground. They share that story amongst themselves and themselves alone.

 

* * *

 

“I do not fit here.”

The Iron Bull glances over to see M tug at his collar and wince when he tugs too hard. M looks down at his clothes and sighs, “At least they allowed me to wear the clothes of my people. I do not know what I would do if they tried to force me into wearing frills or lace or whatever _shemlen_ word they use to describe cloth.”

“Same here,” Bull says with a shrug. He doesn’t fit in here either with his hulking frame, large horns, or missing eye and fingers. But at least he’s comfortable here. It’s _interesting_ to watch all these measly humans putting on airs and pretending to be things that they’re not. There’s things to be found and things to be known here, and he likes that part. But he does not fit in.

He’s fine with that. The same can’t be said for M though.

“It is too heavy with musk,” M complains. “And I cannot see or think clearly. All I can see are drunken _shemlen_ stumbling around with their façade of a game.”

“Where did you get that phrase from?” Bull asks, intrigued. He didn’t know M knew or even cared about the Game.

M shrugs, “Cassandra.” He gestures roughly to the dancefloor below them as he continues, “She was very put out by the thought of coming to a ball and ranted for hours by her practice dummy. I sat and listened for her. She calmed down faster than I predicted, but she had several _choice_ words for what she called ‘the blasted Game.’”

“Mmm sure,” Bull hums. He leans closer to M and points out, “It’s heavy, full of politics, but with the right eyes and mind, you can find out things faster in a ballroom than usual.”

M glances at him and replies, “You are correct. These people let down their guard and build it up at the same time. Vivienne and Josephine call this the ‘Great Game’ but I cannot see anything great about it. A great waste of time.” His voice is sharp with derision, and Bull can’t blame him for it. Must not be a good experience for him here considering his people’s history with Orlais.

Iron Bull laughs and bumps M on the shoulder as he says, “True, but I can’t judge them, not when I’m benefiting from the information that they’re leaking.”

M concedes, “Fair, but _Creators_ , I do not know how they can stand it.”

Bull shrugs, “Some people get a kick out of it.”

M steps away and stares at Iron Bull. Bull suddenly notices that M’s eyes are like dark liquid pools, and M steadily gazes at Bull as he asks, “Do you?”

Bull can’t tear his gaze away, so he shrugs, trying to play it nonchalant. “Hmm, I guess,” he chooses to say instead. But he does, _oh,_ he does so very much. The Orlesians call it the Great Game, and Bull thinks that’s the most apt name they could’ve given it. Picking up bits and pieces and slotting them into the greater puzzle was always one of his talents, what Tama saw in him, and what he did later on in the Ben-Hassrath. _Hissrad._ One who makes illusions. And those who make illusions are best at seeing through them.

Thoughts of the Ben-Hassrath — _lies, truths, bits and pieces found in fog, Seheron —_ surface up in his mind, but Bull shakes them off. M studies his face, and Bull can see the way M observes every minute motion he makes. The sure sign of a hunter. Bull gives him a grin, and M makes a small, derisive noise at the back of his throat. He settles back to murmur, “I prefer quiet, more peaceful nights than this. Full moon, warm aravel, crackling fire.”

“That does sound more peaceful than this,” Bull says. His nights are not nearly as quiet as M talks about. There’s always someone in the Chargers with a full tankard and a reel of conversation waiting to play inside of them. Even Skinner can spark up a conversation in less than a candle-mark despite her reticence. But a full moon, a warm tent, and a campfire sound appealing enough to Bull right now.

M gives him a rare smile, genuine in all of its lines. “It was,” he says, soft and low and quiet. Bull thinks this is when M looks the most like his sister. Both of them have smiles that spread slow and steady across the lines of their tattooed faces, and their smiles make Bull feel like there is light glowing at their cores. It makes them _radiant._

Suddenly, Bull feels like he should do something. Something warm curls in his stomach and ignites his heartbeat, and he impulsively asks, “Do you want to dance?”

M looks at him, face blank, and says frankly, “I do not know unless you wish to dance the Twist of the Twins or the halla step or Andruil’s Hunt.” He shapes out symbols with his hands as he mentions the names, and Bull tries to commit them to memory. M’s hands move too fast though.

Iron Bull raises an eyebrow and asks, “Are those Dalish dances?” M nods. “Well,” Bull says with a shrug. “I don’t know how to dance those. I was thinking a simple waltz?”

Honestly, he doesn’t expect M to agree, but he does. “Let us try,” he says simply.

Iron Bull replies, “I didn’t think you would agree.”

A mischievous smile spreads across M’s face, and in that instant, Bull is reminded once more that Lavellan and M are twins. The expression that slides across his face as easily as water is so thoroughly _Lavellan_ , and it takes away his breath. Bull realizes that M of Clan Lavellan is _beautiful_. He thinks that if M walked on the dancefloor with that same expression, like a fox hunting its prey, he would fit in perfectly with the beauty and glamour of the Orlesians. Stood out, even, with his natural beauty and hunter’s grace.

And with that same beautiful smile, M says, “I aim to surprise.”

 

* * *

 

It can be a joy to watch a master work the Great Game whether that master be reluctant or not.

Vivienne watches Lavellan weave through the crowds of people on the ballroom floor. Lavellan slips in and out of sight sometimes, but when Vivienne does see her, Lavellan stands out like no one else. Not even Celene herself is as radiant or as brilliant within the rooms of her own Game.

Vivienne agreed with Josephine at first. It would be madness to allow Lavellan to wear her people’s clothing to such a ball like this one at Halamshiral. But now, Vivienne studies the way people turn to stare at Lavellan and concludes that Lavellan made the right choice. The lack of a mask, a resplendent ceremonial Dalish gown made with rich fabrics, and Lavellan’s vallaslin make the attention of the room hone in on her and her alone. Every now and then, small sparks of magic flicker off Lavellan’s skin, making her even more radiant.

The usual smile is on Lavellan’s face, but Vivienne knows that it’s harder than any other mask she could have commissioned for Lavellan. It’s flinty when you glimpse it at the wrong edge, but it’s perfectly sweet and saccharine enough for it to be serviceable. Lavellan talks to people with the same open eyes that she does to the people at Skyhold and to every campsite and refuge she drags Vivienne too. It makes people open themselves up to her in turn without them even realizing it.

And again, Vivienne mentally reiterates the fact that Lavellan is an untrained master of the Game, of the art of communication and the art of masks. As usual, Lavellan defies Vivienne’s expectations and shatters them during her ascension.

Vivienne completely expected to be Lavellan’s babysitter for the ball, but now, she turns to leave Lavellan alone. Lavellan is not a fool; she will not jeopardize their cause without good reason. She considers the Inquisitor before filing this fact away for later reference. If anything, she expected Lavellan’s brother with his silent steps and uncanny way of divining secrets to be the one best suited for Orlais. Well, twins would be twins, and the Lavellan twins are doing their best to wreak havoc in Orlais without anyone else knowing it.

She paces away from the railing and down towards the courtyards. Her mantle overlaid with metal weighs heavily on her shoulders, but it is a burden that she has learned to relish. She laces her teeth and her lips with a powerful smile learned after years of playing the Game. Lavellan may be better than Vivienne expected, but Vivienne has lived her years playing for the sake of survival and for the sake of playing. She came here to Halamshiral with a purpose, and she intends to fulfill it.

But as she paces through the hall, she catches a glimpse of plum velvet. Her teeth set even more firmly in a smile, but even she cannot stop it from veering into a snarl. The woman wearing the dress pauses to give Vivienne a yellow-eyed smile as well.

“Good evening, Lady Vivienne,” Morrigan, Celene’s newest arcane advisor, says. “A pleasure and a surprise to meet you here. I heard that the Inquisitor was coming but…” Morrigan drags her gaze up and down Vivienne before she murmurs, “I did not expect her to bring all of her lackeys.”

“Such a crude word,” Vivienne chides. “You do more than disrespect the Lady Inquisitor by referring to her inner circle as such. You disrespect your Empress as well with such conduct.”

“Ah, I was not aware that I would be attending an etiquette lesson,” Morrigan laughs. “But no matter. I was wondering if you knew where your dear Lady Inquisitor was?”

“I am not her keeper,” Vivienne replies, as evenly as she can keep it. “Perhaps you could find her among the nobility on the dance floor. Or, would you like me to guide you through it? Maker knows how _new_ this all must seem to you, Lady Morrigan, considering your…” Vivienne trails off and bites back the ruder word that she thinks of first. “Background,” she decides to say.

Morrigan stiffens, and Vivienne smiles. Good; it got to her. However, Morrigan pads a few steps closer and murmurs, “I do appreciate your offer, Madame de Fer, but I fear that your guidance may be outdated. The royal court whirls on so quickly; I fear that your current knowledge of the nobility and the newest developments of the Great Game may be lacking. I, of course, mean no disrespect, Lady Vivienne. Simply a concern I have.”

Ah. There it is.

Morrigan sweeps out of the hall and towards the ballroom in a flurry of plum velvet, but Vivienne remains, shoulders and back ramrod straight. So, this little upstart of a witch thinks she can be a better arcane advisor than Vivienne herself.

Vivienne sighs and continues on her path as she reflects upon her time in the Great Game. Morrigan is deft with words, yes, but if Vivienne’s informants are correct, Morrigan has no interest in currying favor from other nobles. A dangerous hobby in Vivienne’s opinion. Even Lavellan knows that it is important to gain a good reputation and to gather favors from as many nobles at this party as she can. In Lavellan’s words, you had to wring as much as you possibly could from them, like a wet rag or some laundry. Now, Vivienne would never call a noble a wet rag — to their face, at least — but Vivienne is oh so aggravated at the fact that this _novice_ has already risen so far in the Great Game and in the court. This is something that Vivienne has spent years perfecting, and now, some little raven hops in and tries to call it her own.

Vivienne forces the snarl back down her throat, and she takes comfort only in the fact that Morrigan’s fate in the Great Game is not long-lived. Vivienne has been here before her, and she will remain here after her no matter what the future brings. She is a tree in this court with roots burrowing far, far below the surface to anchor her in and with branches that stretch out to brush against almost every major faction within this court. The loss of Enchanter Vivienne is much like if the Inquisition ever lost Lady Montilyet: an irrevocable disaster.

So, Vivienne takes comfort in that. It takes masters to navigate the Great Game, and Morrigan is not one of them. Instead, Vivienne redoubles her efforts and frames her evening around her personal interests and stakes in the court but also around Lavellan. And Lavellan shines, gleams, takes to the Game like a bird in flight.

And Vivienne watches and plays along.

 

* * *

 

Sera drops down from one of the banisters to land precariously on top of a slippery rug. With a quick twist of her feet and some arm-waving, she regains her balance silently. An elven maid slips out of the shadows to whisper something in her ear. The elf wears a scrap of Jenny red tied to her wrist like a bracelet. Sera looks at her with some confusion but shrugs.

“Damn,” she whispers. “Don’t know what the hell Quizzy wants it for, but get it to her anyways.” She snorts out a small giggle, “But nug shit? Bet she’s gonna do something _fun_ with that, ha!” Sera glances over at the maid again and gives her a wide grin, “Thanks for the info.” The maid nods and bustles off to the kitchens.

Sera tugs at the collar of her uniform and makes a small face at it. At least they didn’t try to force her into a dress. Pants were easier to run around and do pranks with. The color wasn’t great — brighter and bolder than Red Jenny red — but it was required. Damn Josephine and her guilt-tripping. Her only consolation was the fact that almost everyone else in the Inquisition hated the uniform just as much. The only person that looked somewhat decent in it was Leliana, Cassandra, and possibly Cullen for the people who preferred men in the crowd. She’s already caught Dorian staring at Cullen’s ass in those pants more than five times this evening.

She flicks an ear, waiting for any stray sounds, and then creeps into the shadows and up the stairs. There are a few suspicious-looking guards, but Sera decides against just shooting them without asking. The last time she did that, she almost accidentally shot Henry because his human arse looked too much like the other human arses in the Winter Palace.

Then, she catches the scent of shit.

It’s overpowering, and Sera chortles as she pads down the carpets. Quizzy must have gotten her requisition.

When she arrives at the end of the hall, she catches sight of a door that’s slightly ajar. She peers inside to see Lavellan holding a spatula and a small pail of what she assumes to be nug shit.

Lavellan looks up, and her eyes shine like cats’ eyes in the dim lighting of the moons from the open window. In front of her is a large tapestry showing the Exalted March on the Dales with shit smeared all over it. Lavellan smiles, all teeth and danger, and she gestures to the tapestry with her spatula, “I have decided to take a small break.”

Sera breaks out into the widest grin that she ever smiled in the past week and laughs so hard that her cheeks hurt. “Damn, Quizzy,” she chokes out as her laughs shake her shoulders. “How’d ya think of this one?”

Lavellan looks serene like the way the stories and tales paint her to be: the Herald of Andraste herself. However, Sera realizes that Lavellan looks very much like a cat who stole the cream with pride radiating off of her as she holds the spatula almost triumphantly.

Lavellan then turns back to the tapestry and reaches to pile some more shit on her spatula.

“Watch this,” she requests. Then, she pulls back to slap the spatula against the tapestry with a satisfying slap. Brown smears across a woven image of Sister Amity and Lord Demetrius Aron. She slides the spatula across the fabric so that brown stains the face of Ser Brandis of Lac Celestine as well.

“They slaughtered us,” Lavellan recounts. “They brought their armies because we did not want the Chantry’s religion. We already had gods of our own; we did not need another. They killed us, we killed them.” She sets down her pail and steps back to survey her handiwork. The image of the divine in the center is covered with so much shit that the tapestry can’t be seen underneath, but swirling letters are inscribed in the shit with what Sera assumes to be the edge of the spatula.

Lavellan turns to look at Sera with a dangerous glint in her eye. “Halamshiral was built on the bones of our people,” she says flatly. “I know that you do not care. I know that we dealt blows to the _shemlen_ as well, but the fact remains that these humans, these _nobles_ , here in this palace, dancing atop the bones of my ancestors, don’t care about us. Not unless we have rounded ears like them.” She smiles mirthlessly, “I think I understand why you do these kinds of things. It is very satisfying.”

Lavellan sets the pail down and drops the spatula in the pail. It clatters against the metal, and Sera is speechless. “I wrote ‘suck a wolf’s dick’ on the picture in the middle,” Lavellan says conversationally. “In elvhen. They won’t understand, but now you know.” Her face softens into the Lavellan that Sera knows, and Sera feels a little more comfortable with that expression than what she had before.

“Why not in common, yeah?” Sera wonders. “You know, so that the ones up top know?”

Lavellan folds her hands behind her back as the two look at the tapestry lit by the moonlight.

“That is why. They will not know and that will infuriate them more than anything.”

 

* * *

 

_Does she burn? Does she bless? How much of her is real and how much of her is divine?_

Those are the things that they whisper about the Inquisitor, the Herald, in the halls of the Winter Palace. and Lavellan feels as though she is choking on the perfumed mockery and expectations. The shadow of her people's deaths is casting over her and is darkening her vision. She sees the happy _shemlen_ , dancing on the bones of her ancestors, and when Mahanon catches her hard, flinty gaze, he nods. He understands. They do not.

She tightens her hands into fists and sucks in a gulp of air. It tastes of musk and flowers and amber. With a smile pasted on her face, she strides over with straightened shoulders to Dorian. He would be the one most willing to follow along with her lead. Lavellan doubts that she will be able to extract Cullen out of his throng of admirers and feels as though he would disapprove of her plan regardless of who she dances with. She wants to dance with Cassandra, but she will not force her into a place where she is not comfortable without her prior consent. She cannot afford to have Josephine or Leliana distracted. So, she goes for the supposed dark horse of nobles and politics. She cannot pretend to comprehend the twisted intricacies of _shemlen_ , but Dorian of House Pavus is a man that would probably approve of her plan.

She smiles darkly at him, and he squints at her face. Lavellan’s hands are cold from the ice water that she used to scrub any of the scents or traces of the act that she just pulled with the renown Chantry tapestry of the Dales.

Lavellan bows perfectly, just like Josephine and Vivienne drilled into her, and states, "Dance with me." There is no question in her inflection of the words, and Dorian blinks. Still, he bows back in turn and accepts her hand without another word. He tugs her on the dance floor and starts to take the lead as the music starts up again, but Lavellan’s eyes flash. Instead, she forces him to fall into her steps and line.

Dorian bends his head closer and whispers urgently, "What are you doing, Lavellan?"

She smiles, all teeth and no charm, and replies evenly, "Making a point."

As the two twirl and step, Lavellan’s vallaslin shine as if they were lined with fire. She begins to leave trails of ambient magic in her wake whether it be crackles of electricity, puffs of smoke, or frosty footsteps. Her skin illuminates as if there was a fire lit from inside of her, and her mark crackles with green fire. Dorian’s eyes widen, and the remaining traces of lyrium in his veins react to her magic. The light and aura that Lavellan emanates transfers to him, drawn by the traces of blue in his bloodstream, and she steps away to twirl gracefully into someone else's arms.

Whispers of the Herald’s blessing spread throughout the ballroom. The music had paused slightly, but now, it starts up again with renewed vigor. Every person that she dances with is awed and is stunned silent as she progresses through the dance floor as if it were a battle. At some point, she stops trying to waltz and turns her dance partners as she sees fit.

Then, she turns around to see that Lady Florianne is her new dance partner. The lady smiles. The curve of her lips is the only thing that Lavellan can see since the rest is covered by a mask, but Lavellan does not need to see to make a point.

"Well met, Lady Inquisitor," Florianne comments. Her voice is lilting and cloying as she continues, "You are making quite the impression here in Halamshiral."

Lavellan tilts her head as she forces Florianne into a harsh twirl, eyes reflective as ever. Florianne does not give a single reaction, but Lavellan thinks that she has managed to unsettle the woman. "I am flattered," she chooses to say. "But I am sure that I am not the best this palace has yet to see."

After all, she is not the best this palace has yet to see. She will be the worst that this palace will ever have.

With the next step, she bursts into flames, fire rolling off of her limbs and roiling with heat. Florianne yelps this time and tries to tug away, but Lavellan keeps her there with an iron grip. The heat is oppressive, but Lavellan will not immolate her. Not yet, at least.

Everyone else has stopped dancing, and the floor is Lavellan’s and Lavellan’s alone.

A brief victory, she thinks. For the Dales. One of the reviled knife-ears has the entire world’s gaze on her and her alone. A brief and bitter victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halamshiral / the winter palace is quite possibly the quest where my lavellan is the most frustrated and the most furious, i think. she'd rather fight demons in the fade and defend a temple of her gods than go to a ball only to slog through etiquette, the remnants of her people, and the great game.


	5. wings

Mahanon lunges at the rift in the air as it explodes into myriad shards of light. He can feel the connection between Ellana and him fraying until it finally tears. And when it tears, it feels there is something in his bones that is cracking and dying. The Tevinter magister cackles as he clutches his amulet, and Solas and Cassandra are frantically looking around for their Herald. But Mahanon knows that his sister is gone from this world, this time, this moment.

Fury laces his voice as he screams, and the small remnants of magic in his blood comes alive to surge up as flames that lick up the magister’s robes. He yelps, a puny, pitiful sound, and Mahanon curls his lip to reveal _sharp_ teeth. He lashes his hand out at the magister while he still has a chance, and a cut sears across his face. It’s a brand that Mahanon knows will never leave.

Then, the magister’s guards flow and mass out the doors of Redcliffe Castle and capture them.

The first week in the dungeons, he knows nothing about what is going on in the outside world. But sooner or later, he loses track of time. They throw Cassandra in the cell next to his and Solas in the cell in front of him.

The guards gossip frequently. They speak of a demon army that some “Corypheus” is raising. When Cassandra demands to know more, he hears a guard spit, “You are not worthy enough to say the Elder One’s name. He will be the new god of a new world with Tevinter at the head.” Mahanon thinks about the enslavement of his people in Tevinter and shudders to imagine a world with those kinds of people at the head. But then again, the humans of the Chantry were equally guilty of such crimes: the utter debasement and slow destruction of their people, the poverty inflicted on them, and the loss of their homes and their families.

Time passes.

Orlais falls, according to one smug and spitefully gleeful guard. He knows this Celene, knows the rumors that some Dalish runners say as they pass through the clans. They say that she let Halamshiral burn for her own gains. He is not sorry to see her go, but he is sorry about the effects of her death. According to Solas, the impacts of her death would make waves in the entirety of Thedas and leave the southern part of the land vulnerable.

Time passes.

They start force-feeding him red lyrium. At first, he resists and clamps his mouth shut. The harsh song of the tainted lyrium bleeds into his ears, and one guard forces his jaw open. The red lyrium is mixed into the gruel they feed him, and as the gruel slips down his throat, the small crystals cut his mouth, his tongue, his throat, his stomach.

Time passes.

The red lyrium grows and festers in his body. He can see it happening to Solas too, and judging from Cassandra’s words, it is happening to her too. It is happening to all of them. They have captured the last of the Inquisition. Sometimes, when the guard leaves the cell doors open, they can hear the shrill screams of tortured people. The scent of blood becomes as intimately familiar to Mahanon like his former tie to his twin used to be. He doesn’t know where she is, but he knows that she is not dead. Not yet. Otherwise, half of his heart would have already withered, blackened, and died ages ago.

But he is dying in turn.

The only thing that he can do is pray to the gods emblazoned on his sister’s and his own skin. Secrets that could help them out of this monstrosity of a reality from Dirthamen, and strength that would devastate the Elder One from Mythal. He is tired of people playing as gods whether it be his people or the Inquisition.

Sometimes, he has conversations with Cassandra or Solas if either of them have enough energy to do so. Cassandra once tells him that she regrets telling Ellana that she loved her. Silly woman. Mahanon tells Cassandra that Ellana liked her from the start. Cassandra weeps after that, and Mahanon wonders if it was a wise choice to tell her that. Another time, Solas tells him that this is all his fault. He never clarifies on it, but when Mahanon presses him further on it, Solas only tells him that he deserves this pain for what he has wrought. Peculiar. Mahanon doesn’t have enough energy to think about it anymore though. The red lyrum is starting to take over his body by this point.

Time seems to be almost nonexistent, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been now. But when he looks up, he thinks that he is seeing an apparition from the Fade, but the sudden surge and tug at his soul connection confirms it. With watery eyes, his sister — whole and healthy and hale — chokes out, _“Ir abelas.”_

Mahanon tries to smile through the lancing pain of the crystals that spike through his skin. _“Tel’abelas, asa’ma’lin,”_ he says. “You are here now.”

 

* * *

 

Krem wipes away the sweat on his brow as he looks out over at Therinfal Redoubt. He _knew_ it. Therinfal Redoubt went suspiciously quiet, and now, as he glances back at Bull, he thinks that it was a right call to tell the Inquisitor about it.

He still flushes a pale pink when he thinks about his embarrassing first encounter with the Inquisitor. How was he supposed to know that little slip of an elf was the Inquisitor? She seemed so blasé with her own authority too. Her advisors and her inner circle seem less like proper advisors and more like guardians chasing after a wayward child. He still can’t believe that _that_ Lavellan was the same Lavellan that managed to haggle the Chargers’ price and put the Iron Bull in his own place. She’s just a small wisp of a thing. But she’s a smart wisp.

He cranes his head to try and get a better look at Therinfal Redoubt. The fortress is completely barren. From what he can tell from the Revered Mother’s words, Lord Seeker Lucius Corin punched her to the ground and laughed at the supposed authority of the Inquisition. When he relayed the information back to the Iron Bull, the only thing he said was: “Glad our Boss didn’t come to parley with them. Don’t think she would’ve gotten out of it alive.”

Krem pokes through the halls of the fortress, using his sword to nudge through the discarded chests and broken vases instead of his hands. Behind him, Dalish has her “bow” held up high and lit bright with magelight, and Skinner has her daggers out and ready in her callused hands. The walls are scorched over and over again. He beckons Dalish over, and she inspects it with squinted eyes. “Not from regular fire and not from divine smites,” she says after a moment’s worth of silence. “This is something demonic. It’s a purer form of fire, straight from the Fade, but look at the way that char streaks across the stone. That’s not channeled or touched by humans. That’s demons.”

“Doesn’t sound good,” Skinner comments. She pokes at the charred wall with the point of her dagger, and some ash crumbles off.

Krem opens his mouth to say something, but he hears a voice cry out, “Bodies!” It’s Stitches. Krem shares a look with Dalish and Skinner before he sprints back down the stairs, hunting after the source of the sound. He meets up with the Iron Bull and Grim in the main chamber, and Iron Bull jerks his thumb over to a set of stairs leading downward. “Stitches went down there with Rocky,” he says.

“Damn, Stitches must’ve screamed his lungs out for all of us to hear,” Dalish mutters.

They all hurry down the stairs and find Stitches and Rocky bent over a body. Behind them are piles of more bodies, all rotting and festering with age. Krem gags at the sheer scent lying heavy on the air. Stitches rolls the body over and points at a neat slice right across the body’s throat. It’s _too_ neat.

Stitches holds a handkerchief to his nose, trying to block out the scent, but he says, “Look at that cut. No sign of real struggle, indicating that whoever this bloke was, they didn’t have the strength to struggle much. I can’t tell much from these bodies. This one’s the most intact one out of all the rotting ones, but I think they were all ill before they died.”

“Weren’t they all Templars?” Krem asks, aghast. “Why would they kill their own men? Their brothers and sisters in arms? Look at them. They’re all wearing the Templar uniform still.” 

It’s true; the Sword of Mercy is still emblazoned across their chests or embroidered onto the pockets of their trousers. They don’t have any armor on, but anyone could recognize the simple logo.

The Iron Bull shakes his head and says, “Everyone back up.” He turns and goes back up the stairs. Grim grunts quietly before trailing after him. Skinner shrugs and plucks at Dalish’s sleeve to follow her when she leaves. Stitches reaches over to close the body’s eyes before taking his leave, and Rocky follows him. Krem stays for only a moment longer and stares at the grisly sight with abject horror.

When they’re congregated back in the main chamber, the Iron Bull cracks his knuckles and says, “Grim and I found a refined form of lyrium in some of the other rooms. Stitches and Rocky found the bodies. What about you, Krem de la Créme?”

“We found char marks across the walls,” Krem reports. “Dalish says that they’re demonic in origin. No rifts from what I can tell to identify the source of the demons, but whatever happened here in this place, it was _bad.”_ He shudders still from the memory of the bodies. He can’t piece together what must’ve happened here. 

“Yeah, definitely violent here,” Bull comments. “That’s the best we can get out of here though. Time to pack up and leave. The Inquisition scouts can’t distract the others forever.”

“Good,” Skinner grumbles. “Let us leave.”

“Yeah, this place is creepy,” Rocky complains. “You take us to strange places, Iron Bull.”

“And I’ll take you to even stranger places,” Bull calls out as he turns to leave out the back entrance. 

Krem spares only one minute to turn around and gaze at the old fortress. The stones and broken windows, the char marks that he can glimpse on the second floor, the memory of the pus-filled and maggot-infested bodies. He shuts his eyes and tries to think of what to say to Inquisitor Lavellan when they report back.

Nothing good, that’s for sure.

 

* * *

 

“Varric has accused Lavellan and I of being a couple.”

Dorian looks up from his book and sighs when he sees Seeker Pentaghast in front of him. He sits up from his little window seat and sets the book aside as he drawls, “Well, you two _did_ sleep together.”

“Not like that!” Cassandra sputters. She takes a step forward until she’s looming over him and folds her arms as she continues, “We literally just slept in the same tent because mine was ruined. Nothing else!”

Dorian thinks that it might be a bad idea to tell Cassandra that he and the Iron Bull purposefully left Cassandra’s tent out for the druffalo to trample. Both he and Bull agreed that this entire situation with Lavellan and Cassandra was getting out of hand. He didn’t know how it was physically possible to have two people so completely blind to the love they felt for each other. Instead of telling Cassandra that, Dorian chooses to roll his eyes and say, “She had no problem with it, and besides, Lavellan’s got nothing but high praise for you. Also, do consider the fact that Varric is often right. Why don’t you just make the move already?”

“She doesn’t feel that way,” Cassandra says. Dorian narrows his eyes at her though. Her voice seems a touch too tremulous. Dorian doesn’t know if it’s just the people that he’s met so far, but it seems as though Southerners were woefully out of touch with their own feelings. At least in Tevinter, he knew what he was grappling with even if he never spoke about it.

Dorian sighs and picks up his book, trying to find his place on the page. “Well,” he says. “If you don’t want to sleep with Lavellan, you could always sleep in someone else’s tent. Although, I will give you a warning. Varric snores, and Cole never sleeps. It’s always a shock to wake up to that boy looking at you in the face.” He gestures down to the rotunda and says, “Solas doesn’t snore, but he reeks of elfroot and wakes up late. Think about that and reconsider whether or not sharing a tent with Lavellan is less preferable.”

“She rolled over during the night and slept curled up close to me,” Cassandra tells him.

Dorian arches a brow and murmurs, “Oh, so now you’re giving me the steamy details now? I should sell these details to Varric.” Cassandra makes a few incoherent smiles, and Dorian laughs. “Oh, the look on your _face,_ Seeker,” he chortles. “Priceless, absolutely priceless. No worries, I won’t tell a single soul. I’m simply of the opinion that you two are needlessly dancing around each other.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, darling, _please_ don’t tell me you’re going out looking like _that._ ”

Lavellan pauses in the middle of Skyhold’s throne room amongst all the ripped and torn fabric, half-built rafters and beams, and stacks of stones waiting to be set in place. She glances down at her clothes and dubiously picks at one of the holes in her trousers before asking plaintively, “Why not? Is there something wrong?”

Vivienne picks her way through the half-wreckage, half-construction area, and she looks Lavellan up and down once more before saying, “You are wearing torn trousers with too many holes, untied boots, worn-out gloves, and a stained blouse.”

“These are _comfortable_ ,” Lavellan immediately says defensively.

Vivienne sighs heavily and says, “Yes, they may be so, but is that really the image you want to strike?”

Lavellan checks herself over again before she pulls up her trousers and tries to pinch the holes together. “Yes?” she hesitantly answers. 

Vivienne shuts her eyes and takes in a deep breath before she lets it go in a spiralling exhale. “Well, I certainly see the appeal. Depending on how you carry yourself, that outfit could lend itself well to surprises if you wish to hide some talent to yours.”

Lavellan scratches her head and wrinkles her nose as she says, “No, I simply wanted to wear comfortable clothes, that is all.”

Vivienne inhales once more, and she’s briefly reminded of her own self when she was young. In ratty, torn robes, running around the library with another apprentice before being caught and told off. She doesn’t remember ever having robes that weren’t hand-me-downs until she passed her Harrowing and came into some better standing as an enchanter rather than an apprentice. Then, she had her heart’s desire of choices when she entered the court and obtained the favor of nobles. Still, those hand-me-downs were soft as silk from so many washings, and they were carefully and lovingly worn to shreds. “Ah,” she says softly. “I see. Well, may I offer you a deal?”

“What is it?” Lavellan asks. She looks dubious at the prospect, and Vivienne chooses her words carefully. 

“The same clothes, but not quite so worn out. Here, let us visit the quartermaster,” she answers. Vivienne strides through the absolute mess that is currently Skyhold. Her back is ramrod-straight, and although workers are buzzing around with tools and materials, they still part ways to make room for Madame de Fer. Lavellan trails after her, and Vivienne is grateful for that. Half of her thinks that Lavellan would simply dash off to whatever else she wanted to do, but it seems like she has the Inquisitor’s attention for now.

They reach the quartermaster, and Vivienne requisitions clothes that are useful and comfortable. However, she ensures that the materials are of much higher quality. When the quartermaster admits that the Inquisition’s coffers are still too low to support it, Vivienne hands him coins of her own. Lavellan gapes at the opulent way Vivienne just tosses her money down, but she doesn’t argue.

“Masks and purpose and manners are all important things in life, things to take into consideration,” Vivienne says. Her gaze softens and she continues, “But not everything has to be masked. Utility is important as well. Here, wear these instead.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan says at a loss. “What do you need me to do in return for these?” 

Vivienne holds up a manicured hand and shakes her head as she says, “No, it is alright. I am happy simply knowing that you are walking around with clothes in a better condition than _those_. Instead, let us both make sure that this Inquisition functions and comes together properly.”

 

* * *

 

“Inquisitor, please.”

Lavellan looks up from her throne and lifts her chin. “No,” she says coldly. “There will be no mercy today.”

“Inquisitor, _please,”_ Josephine says as she wrings her hands. Her trusty tablet and candle is already at Lavellan’s feet, and she has nothing to hold onto other than her own sun-soaked hands.

Lavellan refuses to budge, and in the same icy tone she uses for judgements, she sneers, “The words ‘Inquisitor’ and ‘please’ do not answer the question as to why Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, most recently of Kirkwall and Haven, gets a mabari before I do.”

Josephine wants to groan. She _told_ the Commander to not get the litter of mabari and explicitly ordered the quartermaster to bar the order. She has no idea how the order even got through and how the gold for the litter filtered out of the coffers without her permission, but that is a problem to deal with later. Right now, she has a furious Inquisitor on her hands, and even worse, she has a furious _Lavellan_ on her hands. Lavellan is a force of nature when she is furious, and now, she has to quell the storm before it ravages through Skyhold. “Inquisitor, you have a baby dragon, an undead horse, numerous stags and horses, and even dracolisks,” Josephine tries to say in a placating tone. “What more could you possibly want?”

Lavellan eyes her coldly. “A mabari,” she says simply.

Josephine sighs, “Inquisitor —”

“Even the King of Ferelden promised me a mabari pup weeks before Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath got a mabari,” Lavellan interrupts. She leans forward and props her elbows on her knees. Josephine used to think that Lavellan looked adorable when she did it, but now, she finds it to be absolutely intimidating. Slowly and steadily, Lavellan asks, “Who brought it to him?”

“I do not know, Inquisitor, but I explicitly ordered the quartermaster to not pass the order thro—” Josephine says, but Lavellan cuts her off once more. 

“Bring the quartermaster to me,” Lavellan orders. Josephine wants to drag her hands down her face with utter frustration. She misses the days when Lavellan was still green with her position. Now, Lavellan is familiar with power and wields it with too much ease. Josephine knows that in her heart, that’s not a true sentiment, but right now, she quails before her Inquisitor.

“Inquisitor, please, have some patience,” Josephine tries once more. She uses a tone that has made kings and queens bend to her wishes, and she continues, “If you would like a mabari, then I am sure we can find you one. Would you like to visit Denerim’s kennels? I can send a letter to King Alistair.”

But Lavellan is not a king nor a queen. She does not bend and does not break that easily. “No, I can send a letter myself,” she says stubbornly. “He and I correspond frequently. He sends drawings of cheese and dogs. I send drawings of the bog unicorn and Biscuit and Cassandra.”

Josephine looks at Lavellan bemusedly and asks, “Why Cassandra?”

“She was holding Biscuit,” Lavellan says simply.

_Maker, save me,_ Josephine thinks to herself.

Lavellan leans back against her throne once more, and she says, “It is fine, Josephine. I will figure this out. But I do not like it.” Her voice grows harder. “It is beyond justice, beyond all sense of fairness, to see Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath with a mabari before I ever get a dog.” She imperiously gestures to the tablet at her feet, and Josephine goes up the steps to retrieve it.

“Are you ever going to call him Cullen after today?” she asks once she has her tablet again. It took Josephine months of cajoling and treats to convince Lavellan to call her Josephine instead of her full title.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Lavellan replies airily. “It depends on how Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath reacts to all of this.”

“Most likely he’ll be busy training the recruits,” Josephine sighs. “And Inquisitor, I understand that you are furious, but please don’t call a full war council for this matter. Leliana is strained enough with her own business.” _As am I,_ Josephine thinks but does not say.

Lavellan grudgingly nods, but she tacks on, “And he will likely be busy taking care of his _mabari.”_

“And that too, Inquisitor,” Josephine wearily sighs.

They do not pay her enough for this.

 

* * *

 

“Behind you,” Mahanon says.

Vivienne is already prepared, however, with her wall of ice. Her barrier shatters into a thousand crystalline shards that embed themselves into the shambling corpses’ flesh, and with a sharp stab of her staff, she neatly settles one. An arrow from Mahanon ends the other. “Thank you for the warning,” she says as she brushes off some chunks of rotting flesh from the sleeve of her armored robes. “But I am fully prepared, my dear. For anything.”

Mahanon allows the corners of his lips to curl upward. “I know,” he says. “I wished to inform you that I was going to shoot at something behind you.” She inclines her head at that, and with a gesture of her other hand, she summons a choking winter’s grasp to freeze another reanimated corpse in its place. Blackwall bashes the thing to shards of ice with his shield. Even more corpses rise up to take its place. The Fallow Mire seems to have no end of them.

Behind him, Mahanon can see Ellana dance out of the way of outstretched arms with sparks flying beneath her feet. He unintentionally mimics her sparks, and they course down his arms and into the tips of his fingertips where he feels them warm and burn. He doesn’t have as much magic as his sister does, but it’s still _something._ He can also feel Vivienne’s gaze drilling into his back, and he tries to shake it off. Instead, he nocks another arrow and readies himself for another perfect shot into the dark. Magic flows into the arrow fletching and the bowstring, and as he lets go, the mana trickles into the arrowhead to deal alarming damage.  
  
Vivienne says nothing when the battle is over. She also says nothing when they camp for the night. Instead, she only stops him briefly before he heads out for first watch. “My dear,” she starts off lightly. “Take care to keep that small spark alive. It would be a pity to have an abomination on our hands.” Her voice is light and lilting, but the fingers on his shoulders tighten and drain him of warmth.  
  
Mahanon almost prefers this: this warning both said and unsaid. Words unspoken and actions taken to assure meaning. It was a familiar language to him, and he responds in the only way he knew how. He nods once, and in that moment, the few traces of magic in his veins surges up at his beckoning to warm his shoulder with the heat of a fire. Vivienne narrows her eyes and turns to enter her tent silently. Mahanon turns as well and steps softly straight through their campfire. The fire licks at his ankles but does not burn. The magic in his blood sings out in return.

 

* * *

 

They’re just coming out of a firefight, and Cassandra’s senses feel far too heightened. Red lyrium always makes her ache, and the feeling shakes her down to her very teeth and bones. However, the last body falls with a flare of lightning, and Lavellan steps through the smoke with a triumphant grin. The last remnants of her magic illuminate her, and she flashes Cassandra a wink.

Cassandra sucks in a soft inhale of breath, and Varric has the nerve to nudge her in the side and whisper, “You look stunned. You’ve got it bad for her, huh.”

Blackwall briefly coughs on Cassandra’s other side and shifts his feet in the dry grass. “She’s only got eyes for you, you know,” he says under his breath. Cassandra whips around and glares at him until he averts his gaze and wipes a few bloodstains off his pauldrons.

“Cassandra!” Lavellan calls out. “Did you see that? It is a new trick that Vivienne taught me.” She bounces over, and Cassandra can still feel Lavellan’s magic licking up and swaying with a thousand storms still caught along the outlines of it. She’s smiling, broad and open, and Cassandra can’t help but soften as she looks at her.

Cassandra marvels at how lovely Lavellan looks despite being covered with blood. There’s a heavy iron tang in the air from all the blood and gore, but behind it all, there’s the distinct taste of ozone from her lightning as well as the heavier scent of ambrette on her magic. “Maker, you’re beautiful,” Cassandra breathes out loud.

“Hmm?” Lavellan asks. “Did you say something?”

“No,” Cassandra hurries to say. Both Varric and Blackwall glare daggers at her, but Cassandra resolutely presses her lips firmly together.

Lavellan loops her arm around Cassandra as they start walking back to camp and teases, “I think I know what you said, but would you care to remind me?” Cassandra makes a small noise at the back of her throat, but it only makes Lavellan laugh out loud. She reaches up to wipe something off Cassandra’s cheek and says more softly, “You do not have to say it again, but I want you to know that I appreciate it.”

Cassandra flushes, but she nods. Lavellan’s lips twitch up into a smile when she sees it, and they continue on towards camp.

 

* * *

 

"Why do you call me Wings?" Mahanon suddenly asks.

Varric looks up from Bianca, and the shadows from the flickering firelight dance across his face as he shrugs, "Why not?" 

Mahanon sets down the arrows he was fletching and insists, "I would like to know." 

Varric sighs, “It’s just a nickname, you know. What, you going to be like Sparkler who complains about his nickname?” 

Mahanon shakes his head slightly and explains, “No, I simply want to know what my first impression on you was to merit that kind of title.”

Varric runs a finger down Bianca’s polished wood as he grumbles, “You’re overthinking this.”

“Am I?” Mahanon wonders almost innocently.

Varric falls into a kind of uneasy sadness as he reviews what has occurred in their recent past. Quite frankly, it’s a bunch of shit that he never would have expected. The Varric that used to play Wicked Grace every week and deposit a few hangover potions at Hawke’s door every now and then was not the same Varric of the Inquisition.

Mahanon leans in closer, puts his elbows on his knees, and props his face up on his hands. “I have seen many things that have changed me,” he says. “I would like to know what remains the same and what does not from the perspective of those around me.”

Varric looks him over, and his heart twinges. He’s seen too many people change and crack over the course of the heavy years, and this hero business breaks more people than it should. Even the people that are not heroes themselves precisely, but the people around the heroes.

“I called you Wings at first because your sister was Birdie,” he begins to says almost hopelessly. “The wings to her bird, I guess.”

“Really?” Mahanon asks, looking more intrigued than anything else.

Varric nods and continues, “And then, Wings for your damn arrows that flew faster than Bianca’s bolts or Sera’s arrows. And seriously? Arrows that froze their targets into ice? Arrows that set their targets on fire?” He chuckles a little bit, “And then, Wings for always moving quickly from place to place, never really settling.” He stops for a moment and stares into the flames that rise up and up and consume the old wood. He suddenly glances up and says with a bittersweet smirk, “And now? Wings for saving us all. A bird needs wings to fly, and you’re the wings. Sure, Birdie might be the hero that we all need, but that hero business is going to break her in the end. You’re her wings, you keep her flying higher and higher.”

Mahanon’s expression softens, and Varric can swear that he can see a small glistening tear in the corner of Mahanon’s left eye. “Truly?” he breathes out. He picks up a feather that he was using for fletching and twirls it between his thumb and index finger. 

Varric nods.

“I hope so,” Mahanon confides. “She is already breaking. I do not want her to break further.”

The smile falls off Varric’s face as he says, “I know, Wings. I know, Wings.”

 

* * *

 

Enemies come, filling the once-sacred temple with fury and bloodshed.Abelas despises the chaos, filthy and seething and raging with the dissonant hum of red lyrium. Such creatures were never meant to walk these aisles, step on these stones. They were desecrating his Lady’s temple. Some may have called the Creators cruel and powerful, but his Lady, his Mythal, was a good and honorable woman who deserved _more_ than _this_ desecration.

The _shemlen_ , the ones with pointed ears, approach him with desperate faces marked with the vallaslin. Strange, Abelas thinks. He knows little of the outside world, but he has glimpsed enough in the Fade to know that the _shemlen_ with the pointed ears, their lost and fumbling descendants, were not regarded highly in the world of man. Yet, this girl, this _Lavellan_ , seems to command the forces with a voice that shows too much temperance with battle-fire and judgement. Curious, really. But no matter what her ears look like or what her voice sounded like, she does not belong in the Temple of Mythal. He swore to guard this place and the Well, and he must fulfill his duty as it calls.

Suddenly, a wave of arrows falls overhead, and the man who used to be a wolf raises his voice. And with his call, a spirit barrier shimmers out in front of them and takes the brunt of the hit. The patterns of his magic and mana were familiar as always, just like the ever-present flickerings of mischief and spirit that used to float in the crystal spires of Arlathan. Abelas was once stationed at his Lady’s side in Arlathan, and he remembers the wolf clearly. But now is not the time for distant memories. Now is the time for battle.

He draws his sword, and his mana flickers down the blade with practiced ease. The Inquisitor and her companions are already in the thick of battle. The archer breathes fire and lightning down the shafts of his arrows and fires them carefully at targets that his twin sister calls out. The raven woman shifts forms fluidly, bear and wolf and raven and spider, and slashes the enemies into pieces. The Seeker remains at the forefront, bearing her shield and sword, as the wolf spins spells from the Fade with every breath. 

Abelas dives into the fray as well, and he engages one red templar. He quickly glances over the man; his plate armor is too thick, and the red lyrium crystallizes over the few gaps in his armor. Even classic places such as the joints would be difficult to hit due to the scream of the lyrium and the crystals stuck between them. Nevertheless, Abelas gracefully steps to the side and swipes his long, thin blade downwards. He advances, pressing magic and force heavily on the templar. With one more push, he forces the templar down and stabs downward on the groove between the templar’s breastplate and helmet. When he draws back, the blood on his sword tells him that he found his mark, swift and true.

Suddenly, his breath catches in his throat as a breeze whips behind him. The sound of a body hitting the floor makes his ears prick up, and he whirls around to see the Inquisitor with an ethereal sword drawn. Her breaths are long, labored, and panting, but when she turns around, she flashes him a grin and says, “I am glad I made it in time, _lethallin._ ” 

Abelas sniffs with disdain automatically; does she dare call him clanmate? Her expression falters, and the branches of Mythal’s tree on her brow sink down as her eyebrows furrow. She nods once and grips the hilt of her sword with renewed fervor. With a gentle exhale of breath, fire blazes from her hands, and she flickers in and out of sight as she fade-steps into another position.

Abelas’s eyes widen as he realizes that she practices the art of the _Dirth’ena Enasalin_ . Memories wash over him as they are wont to do, especially after emerging from _uthenera_. The sound of swords clashing against swords, magic manifesting as weapons, Mythal watching from above as her newest initiates train through sweat and tears in the dusty training arenas — He automatically parries a blow from a templar, and as he fights, he berates himself for losing concentration.

But still, the Inquisitor using such an ancient art strangely resonates with him. Even though she is nothing more than a quickling child with pointed ears. He does not know what to make of it.

 

* * *

 

Ellana pauses for just a split-second as Mahanon exhales along the shaft of his arrow. The arrowhead begins to gleam with ice crystals. He lets go of the bowstring and watches as it lands squarely in a templar’s neck, just below the helmet. Ice spreads all over the templar’s body, and Cassandra lands a satisfying smash with her shield and shatters him to bloody shards of ice. The shards are red, and it should be disturbing to see ice like that. But, Mahanon and Ellana have seen so much red in his life that it no longer makes them shake. The first time that Ellana saw red, red like the lyrium that they all fight now, was when she was too young to see it. It was not the red of lyrium; it was the red of blood.

Ellana sucks in a breath and wrinkles her nose as she tastes the sharp tang of iron and blood. _Battle-taste_ , she thinks as she summons a volley of flame to launch at the distant templar archers. Her wrapped feet slide on the blood pooling on the stone of the temple’s floors, and she swears out a flutter of elvhen, the words slipping along her tongue as easily as they ever had. She’s sure that Solas and Abelas give her dirty looks for that, but she simply doesn’t have the time to give a shit about it. 

Her pool of mana quickly recedes, and she realizes with impending horror that she will have to drink lyrium in order to summon up enough magic to end the rest of the templars. Ellana bites her lip hard at the memory of the silver-cool taste of the potion, but she does not have a choice. She fumbles around for the small vial and roughly uncorks it. She pours it down her mouth, almost gagging on the crispness and electrifying taste.

Her Keeper always told her to be wary of lyrium; too much made you magic-mad, fade-wretched, constantly haunted by living dreams and wisps of dream mana that never quite faded out of you. Considering her warnings, it was no wonder that even the templars eventually lost their minds to the lyrium. Deshanna herself only drank lyrium once. That day, in Ellana’s memory, was red, oh so brilliantly red, just like the red lyrium that glitters in the bodies of dead men. But on that day, it was not red lyrium; it was the red of blood.

Ellana dives to the side, hands almost shaking with the excess of power, and lets a column of flame take her place. It immolates all who are caught in it, and she ducks before a volley of arrows can pierce her body. With a clench of her right hand, sparks of lightning chain from enemy to enemy, and with a wave of her left hand, she tears a physical rift into the raw Fade. It rattles her with power and sucks the life out of her enemies like a giant vacuum. However, that was too much, even with the lyrium.

Ellana buckles to her feet, and her vision begins to blur as a flurry of red flashes above her. A behemoth with crystalline, cracked skin and flaming eyes bears down upon her. Rationally, Ellana knows that she should move, but the red is too much and the tang of blue lyrium is too fresh on her tongue.

She can see her father being the first to fall with blood seeping through his tunic and ironbark armor. Her mother’s magic fizzling out under a Silence from a templar. Silver sword flashing downwards, same as the image emblazoned on the breastplates of the large, armored men. A high shrill scream. Ellana doesn’t remember if it was her voice or Mahanon’s. Deshanna, grandmother, _mamaela_ , pushing her out of harm’s way. Blue staining the Keeper’s lips, ground coming alive with Mythal’s curse, Andruil’s winds howling around them, Sylaise’s fire blazing. Ellana and Mahanon clutch each other in this memory, and their magic in their veins ignite in response to the maelstrom of hell swirling around their grandmother. 

Memory, memory, memory, sickening and heavy with the scent of hot, spilled, burned blood.

Red like blood, red like lyrium.

Ellana chokes, throat closing up on the horrifically sharp taste of lyrium, and readies herself to brace the blow. She doubts that she will survive this. But suddenly, a rough voice barks out invectives, rolling and heavy and smoother than the elvhen that she is used to. Strong arms tug her out of danger’s path, and Abelas is there, larger than life. He shoves her behind her and slashes out with his thin blade. Magic answers the path of his blade, and the behemoth roars with pain. “Move!” Abelas bellows as he engages the monster. Ellana stumbles backwards, still unable to shake the memory from her mind.

Her parents’ bodies, lying limp on the ground. Mahanon is shaking their father, desperately trying to wake him up from an endless sleep. Ellana is crying, tears tracking their way down her cheeks, and her magic is sparking, trying to stitch brutal wounds back together like _mamaela_ and _mamae_ once showed her. 

Hands cup around her cheeks, and Ellana’s eyes focus back to see Cassandra’s brown eyes. She glances back at Abelas, and her lips twist bitterly. But, when she turns back to Ellana, her expression softens, _gentles,_ and she whispers, “My love, stay here in the present.”

Ellana glances around her surroundings and sees that she’s been dragged further away from the battle; a trail of dead bodies shows her the path. In the distance, she can see an archer struggling to make his way through the battle. Her heart connection tugs violently, and she can suddenly sense Mahanon’s desperation. She sends back a weak flash of _I am alright_ back to him, but she knows that will not stop him from making his way over here. Bodies will line his path from his position to hers. It’s an inevitability that he grimly thinks along their soul connection.

Cassandra hands still remain on her cheeks, cold yet comforting, and Ellana sits there for only a moment. Then, she jolts and tears herself out of Cassandra’s grip. She can’t afford to waste her time. Staying here like this, still and unresponsive, puts both of them in danger, and Ellana would never forgive herself if she allowed Cassandra to get hurt. The mere thought of that is like salt on a raw wound that never healed. 

She leans in to peck Cassandra’s cheek before she hauls herself back up. “Thank you, _vhenan,”_ Ellana breathes out before she sucks in deep breaths of air; it tastes of death and battle but it must be enough. Ellana gathers up the remnants of her mana and throws herself into battle again with her mind blank. She burns bodies to ashes without a second thought and dodges as if it were instinct. Fire and lightning follow her in a path of devastation until she reaches Mahanon. 

They only have to share a single glance before he understands the memories that resurfaced. Ellana alters the flow of her mana to a gentle, healing stream of magic that envelopes her hands. Even though Mahanon has little to no damage dealt to him, she still pats healing magic into his skin as if he were dying in front of her eyes. At this point, the number of templars are dwindling until Ellana can hear the last thump of a body hitting the floor.

“Just a scratch of an arrow across my cheek,” Mahanon tries to say gently. “I already have scars. Stop, save it for someone else who needs it more than I.”

“I know,” Ellana says in a voice that shakes too much at the edge for her liking. She continues to weave spells around Mahanon as she repeats, “I know.”

Ellana can feel Abelas and Cassandra’s gazes on the back of her neck, and she bites her lips hard. Red like lyrium, red like blood. The thought circles round and around in her head, and she exhales hard. She settles her expression and regains her composure enough to place the iron mask of the Inquisitor back on her face. “I am sorry,” she states, tone cool and crisp. “Let us continue; we _must_ stop Corypheus.”

_Before it is too late_ , she chooses to not say. It is a sentiment that all share though.

 

* * *

 

Ellana swallows the water down like she does with dreams: ravenously. 

As she drinks, she can feel the ancient minds and memories of the centuries upon centuries stored in the Well of Sorrows. They press on her like spirits against the veil, whispering and humming in the old tongue. Ellana gasps when the water is empty, eyes glowing white, and she levitates above the ground just slightly.

Mahanon clutches his head, fingers pressed tight to his temples. This is not the first time he has felt such pain through his connection, but this? This is intense to the point where even he can hear some of the voices. He crumples to the ground with his hands clenched over his ears in a futile attempt to shut the voices out. He can feel Solas’s hands on his skin, trying to push healing magic around him to drown out the pain, but it’s to no avail. Mahanon raises his head shakily to see apparitions swirling around her like water, and one lifts its regal head up to stare straight at him. 

_Shemlen_ , they hiss. _Young, unworthy, quickling children._

Solas increases the amount of healing magic circling around him, and it helps somewhat. The pain dulls to the point where he can focus on the voices instead of the pain. The Dalish use a language so fractured and diverse from what it used to be, but it’s enough for him to understand snatches and snippets of the fluid sentences. 

Then, the voices disappear all at once. His sister turns around, and there’s silver lined all over her face, coating her over and over again until he can barely recognize her as the same person anymore. He hears Cassandra’s grieved cry, but his eyes remain on his sister. She slowly lifts her hand to brush her nose with her thumb and draw a line down the bridge of her nose to her collarbone with her index finger. Mahanon almost chokes out a sigh of relief when he sees it. It’s their own symbol, a way to sign the truth, and now, he knows that there is enough of Ellana left in her for her to remember that. 

He flicks his right ear and draws the same line down his nose to his neck with his finger for her. Ellana wryly smiles and turns back to speak with Cassandra. Her face shutters back into something different, but Mahanon falls back against Solas and Cole, knowing that there’s still a shred of his sister left.

 

* * *

 

The sun sets across the horizon with its blinding rays dimming into reds and oranges that stretched into the changing sky. Lavender and pink bleed out along the edges, and Dorian points at one particularly colorful patch of sky as he says, “Well, would you look at that. I should watch the sunset more often.” 

Mahanon leans against the balcony railing as he drawls, “Yes, you really should. You’re either with your books, doing some sort of mischief with my sister, or looking at the Iron Bull.”

Dorian flushes pink as he snaps back, “I do _not_ look at him _that_ often.” 

Mahanon concedes, “If it makes you feel better, he looks at you the same way too.” 

Dorian eyes Mahanon carefully as he says, “Are you sure about that?”

Mahanon snorts a bit as he stands straight and gazes at the horizon. “I’m a hunter, a scout,” he says simply. “I’m _supposed_ to notice things. The clan would have died if I wasn’t observant enough to notice obvious signs like that.” Mahanon’s face briefly twists into an ugly grimace before it smoothes out into its usual placid expression. But still, it makes Dorian look back at Mahanon carefully. Perhaps it was their recent visit to the Dalish clan on the Exalted Plains that triggered it? _Old memories,_ he thinks. _Old and ugly memories of Wycome._

Dorian figures that he has to change the subject, but he doesn’t know what to say exactly. A sudden turn in the conversation would be no good. It wasn’t like he could break out the classic “so, what kind of rituals do you favor” or “what year is your favorite for a red wine” like he used to at parties in Tevinter. It needs to be a somewhat subtle connection. Then, he remembers what the clan said to the Lavellan twins at the Exalted Plains. They seemed happy and welcomed and in a place that they truly belonged among that clan, and the two had spoken in their fluid Dalish language with their hands gesturing who knows what.

“What does your name mean?” Dorian asks. “It looked as though that Dalish clan back there knew that it meant _something_ special. Hope or something like that? The rest, I couldn’t understand.”

Mahanon takes a moment before he starts to explain. "Lavellan," he says slowly, enunciating each and every syllable as if it were a gift to savor. "It means 'they who journey to a hopeful place.' And Mahanon? My parents chose it to mean 'he who moves ahead to a good place.'" He laughs a little and says, “They only expected Ellana, and once they found out mid-birth that there were two of us, they expected her to come out first. My grandmother laughed about I was the one to move ahead. My parents combined the elvhen words to make a name. Mahanon. My sister’s name means ‘one who has the ability to do anything’ and it fits her well.”

Dorian blinks for a while before ducking his head and saying quietly, “Thank you for telling me. I know that you don’t open up very much.” 

Mahanon shrugs and turns his face towards the setting sun. The red and orange light plays across his face and gives his skin a reddish tinge to it. The two remain silent on the balcony, and Mahanon grows a little more somber than before. “Secrets kept,” he begins. “Will always remain in the dark, in the shadows, unknown if kept correctly. I… I do not want to do that to my clan. It is bad enough that they were doomed. I will not let that happen to their name and their memory.”

Dorian looks at Mahanon, outlined with the dying light of the sun, and says softly, “Thank you, friend. You’re quite admirable, you know?”

Mahanon turns towards Dorian with a wistful smile. “I know that I do not smile as much as my sister, but I think I have learned how to share more of myself with others,” he says softly. “Thank you for your patience. I try.”

 

* * *

 

"Lavellan and Sera set fire to a camp."

Cassandra groans before she takes a sip of wine from her tankard and sinks down her chair with utter despair. Dorian looks at her with disapproval across the tavern table and grumbles, "At least have the decency to drink in a wine goblet or glass, will you? We are not uncultured swine here in the Inquisition!" 

Iron Bull belches loudly before scratching his beard and grinning one of his classic shit-eating grins. "Uncultured swine, huh, Vint?"

Dorian makes a face at him before waving his hand and asking, "So what did our little firebrand and the local Jenny do? Set fire to a camp? Can't be that bad compared to some other things they've done." 

Cassandra doesn’t know how Lavellan possibly has the propensity for so much disaster. She loves her. Truly, she does, but at this rate, Cassandra suspects that Lavellan will be the death of her if not the side-effects of running with the Inquisition. Not the blasted Venatori or the red templars or the angry demons. Just Lavellan.  
  
She hauls himself back up the chair and gives the scout a withering look. "What did they do this time," Cassandra grinds out.

The scout looks abashed as she says, "They set an Inquisition camp on fire while they were hanging lanterns on Cole's hat." 

Darius looks at him with disbelief. "There isn't anything to even hang off that hat, much less lanterns!" 

The scout twists her hands tight as she continues, "They also threw him at the enemy."  
  
"Threw who?"

"Cole, sir. They threw Cole at the Venatori."  
  
Cassandra buries his face in her hands and quietly whispers the Chant under her breath to calm herself down. Dorian gapes at the poor scout, and Iron Bull just guffaws and slaps his hand on the table. "They've got guts to do that," he laughs loudly. "Was the demon still on fire? What happened to those Vint bastards?" 

The scout now perks up a bit as she says, "They set the Venatori on fire too with the rest of the lanterns. Apparently they also used the Venatori's breeches and underclothes as well."  
  
Dorian taps his chin with his index finger as he muses, "Surely my countrymen cannot put up as pathetic of a fight as that? But oh, it's Venatori, and their stupidity and idiocy knows no bounds."

"I can’t believe she did that,” Cassandra sighs. Actually, scratch that. Cassandra thinks that she can.

Dorian shrugs, "Consider what our dear Inquisitor has gotten herself into thus far. I've dragged her out of a rotting bog with fleshy bits still stuck to her. I've healed her sunburns in the desert and got sand out from her leg wrappings. I've pulled her out of haystacks and snowbanks and mud puddles and whatnot."

Iron Bull laughs as he says, "Sounds like you're more of a nanny than a best friend."

“How,” Cassandra exhales. “How does she manage to do all of this. I think I’m going to go check in on her.”

“Good luck!” both Dorian and the Iron Bull call out after her as she trudges out of the tavern. She squints when the daylight strikes her eyes. The sun still hasn’t set yet, to her chagrin. If the scout’s already gotten word of this, then Lavellan must be back. Cassandra stretches and pops the kinks out of her back and arms before she sets off to check on her errant lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this turned out to be a rather mahanon-centric chapter, so i named it for his nickname haha

**Author's Note:**

> again, i cut most of these out because i wanted a fic that focused mostly on cassandra's perspective in the romance, but i also didn't want to throw out all of the scenes i wrote prior to deciding that. i'll add a couple of drabbles and scenes every now and then whether they be cut from [the main fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657441) or not. and uh, also, i'll come up with a better summary in the future. thanks for reading, and i hope you enjoyed it! let me know what you thought about it in the comments <3


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